


Order Up

by IndianSummer13



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Attentive Waitress!Betty, F/M, Fluff, Food, Light Angst, Reluctant Chef!Jug, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 22:31:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 50,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13668660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndianSummer13/pseuds/IndianSummer13
Summary: In which aspiring writer Betty Cooper, in need of money to pay her share of the rent, takes a job at a diner with a boss who knows very little about good food - and even less about good women.It just so happens that she knows a lot about both.And then there’s Veronica Lodge, ever the supportive best friend, who doesn’t expect to be willingly served greasy hash browns by a taller-than-tall, darker-than-dark, neck-tattooed waiter. Except, it happens.And she likes it....Or, FP goes to jail and leaves Jughead in charge of the diner he’d worked so hard to make a success. It’s a magnet for the life he’d tried to leave behind, and he’s floundering when he finds salvation in the form of his new, inherentlygoodwaitress.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by a prompt on Tumblr from randomtvblog1. I have kept some of the points but changed others.  
> The SweetVee in this is a side order. It is, predominantly, a Bughead story.
> 
> Also, I just love food, so there's that. Hope you enjoy!

The bell on the door chimes and Jughead looks up briefly from behind the counter to see a girl with a somewhat out-of-place smile on her face. It’s still a little early for pleasantries (it’s  _ always _ too early for pleasantries) and so when she says,

“Good morning,” the response that leaves his mouth is a gruff,

“What can I get for you?”

“Oh,” she replies, clearly a little thrown, and he considers making a comment about the crappy weather they’ve been having lately to redeem himself. When she asks for a menu, he decides not to bother. 

He procures one from beneath the counter and hands the laminated list of items her way. “We’re out of number thirty-six,” he adds, just in case she decides to follow the cursive advice at the bottom of the page and ask about the ‘freshly-prepared daily special’. They haven’t had any specials since his dad went to jail. (Jughead also isn’t sure whether they had any before that either)

“Oh,” she says again, casting her eyes downward until she must reach their discussion point - or  _ his _ discussion point, he supposes - at which point her lips quirk briefly. “Can I get a number one and a seven? And uh, you do coffee, right?”

He gestures to the pot behind him. “Right.”

“So a one, a seven and a cup of coffee please.”

“Take a seat,” Jughead tells her, gesturing to the sea of empty tables. “I’ll bring your food over.”

He looks up again and sees her smiling at him. Her eyes are wide and green and she is, he thinks quite abruptly, rather beautiful. “Thank you.”

Feeling a little guilty at his earlier gruffness, he nods and twitches his lips into what he hopes is a smile. The girl heads to a table by the window, pulls out a laptop from her bag and he takes the order though to Tall Boy in the kitchen. 

“Number seven,” he says. 

“We’re out of blueberries.”

Jughead sighs.

“Whip cream too.”

“So all you can make is pancakes?” Jughead asks. 

He can see the anger on Tall Boy’s face. “All I’m saying is that we’re out of those two things, not that I can’t make anything but buttermilk batter.”

Rubbing a hand over his face in place of sighing again, he turns to head back out to the diner. “I’ll go ask if she wants to change her order. We have any strawberries or anything?”

“Banana,” is the cook’s reply. “And syrup. If she wants anything different, tell her to find an IHOP.”

The girl is typing away on her laptop when he reaches her table with the pot of hot coffee. “I’m sorry,” he says, “But we’re out of blueberries and whip cream.”

She turns her head and gives him a reassuring smile, pausing her work for a moment. “No problem - plain pancakes are fine.”

“We have banana,” Jughead offers, a little surprised at how genuinely he wants her to have something better than just plain pancakes. 

“That’s okay,” she replies. “As long as you have syrup, I’m good.”

He feels a smile creeping across his mouth and promptly halts it in his tracks, turning over the white mug waiting on the table to pour her coffee. “Should I leave room for milk or creamer?” he asks.

A little chuckle passes her lips and damn if it doesn’t make him smile too. “Oh no. I need to stay awake. Just black with sugar,” she tells him. 

He’s forming some thoughts about it being rather early for her to  _ need to stay awake _ when the doorbell chimes again and he turns around to take a look at his next customer, hoping they’re not going to want anything with cream or blueberries. It’s the jacket he sees first, then the height of the man he hasn’t laid eyes on since they were seventeen; the shock of dark hair and the snake tattoo on his neck. And then, lastly, the bag in his hand.

“Jug,” Sweet Pea nods, and he leaves the girl’s table without so much as a word.

“You gonna pour me some of that?” Sweet Pea asks, nodding to the coffee pot in Jughead’s hand. “I could use it. Haven’t had proper coffee in five years.”

He grabs one of the larger mugs from behind the counter - the ones reserved for the hot chocolate which is rarely ordered - and pours without any other response, setting the cup in front of the man he hasn’t seen since he went inside. 

“What brings you here Sweet Pea?” he asks flatly. He knows hoping that his childhood friend  _ isn’t _ going to say what he thinks he is, is pointless. And yet, Jughead still hopes anyway.

“FP told me there’d be a job here.” 

Of course he did.

Tall Boy chooses that moment to stick his head through the swing door linking the front of the diner to the kitchen. “Am I making these pancakes or…” His eyes narrow at Sweet Pea. “What’s _ he _ doing here?”

The man opposite lifts his head with tired eyes but an expression that makes it obvious he’s not leaving. “Same as you.”

“No fucking way.”

Sweet Pea pushes his stool back and Jughead readies himself to break up a fight. The three customers he’s got: a couple just finishing up their eggs and toast and the blonde girl who hasn’t yet gotten her pancakes don’t seem to have noticed anything, so he keeps his voice low when he says,

“It’s minimum wage and the tips are shitty.”

“If he’s working here, then I’m out,” Tall Boy responds, his voice loud enough to turn the blonde’s head in their direction. Jughead swallows and nods towards the kitchen.  

“In there.”

The door swings closed behind them leaving Sweat Pea on the other side. “I mean it Jughead - either he works here or I do.”

“C’mon Tall Boy. He got word from my dad that there was a job for him here.”

He shrugs and removes the bandana from around his head. “Then I guess that settles it.”

There’s a door from the kitchen leading to the alley behind the diner and it slams shut behind him, leaving Jughead in the kitchen, extractors fans whirring and a bowl of pancake batter beside the stove. 

“Shit!” he curses, slamming his hands down onto the stainless steel counter. “Shit!” 

He really doesn’t know how much harder he can fail at this whole running a diner thing. In the four months his father has been in jail, there’s been a steady decline in customers and an even steeper decline in customer service. He just doesn’t know what to do in order to make things better again; if things continue, there won’t be a diner for his father to come back to. 

The door between the front of the place and the kitchen squeaks open and Sweet Pea pokes his head through. “So he really left huh?”

“Yeah,” Jughead sighs. “You know how to make pancakes?”

“Nope.”

He eyes the batter and the smoking griddle. “Me neither.”

  
  
  
  
  


Finally, on the third attempt, he manages to get the pancakes right (or at least semi-acceptable) for the poor girl who’s probably wishing she’d ordered breakfast literally anywhere else in the city. He plates them up, dusts them a little too generously in powdered sugar in an attempt to cover the holes, and heads back out to where she’s sitting - still typing, Jughead notes.

“Sorry for the wait,” he says.

“That’s okay.” She genuinely seems to mean it. 

“Can I get you a refill?”

She looks at her cup in such a way that he figures she’s surprised at there being no coffee left. “That’d be great - thank you.”

He nods and instructs Sweet Pea to get to work. “Take orders in the form of numbers; we have no specials -  _ ever _ ; keep the coffee hot and the customers’ cups topped up; make sure nobody leaves without paying.”

“That happen often?” he asks with something of an amused smirk. 

“Too often.”

“Got it,” he says, rubbing at the tattoo on his neck. “There anything on the menu I need to pretend we don’t have?”

“All of it except pancakes? And maybe toast.”

Both of them force out a chuckle but neither make any attempt to disguise the lack of ease. Jughead’s on his way back to the kitchen when Sweet Pea says, 

“Jug?”

“Yeah?”

“I appreciate it. And I’m sorry about Tall Boy. I didn’t mean -”

He nods. “- I know.”

He manages to make several more batches of pancakes before the batter runs out, at which point he has to figure out the eggs to dry mix to buttermilk ratio using sheer guess-work. Naturally, he’s unsuccessful. 

The frozen fries they buy in have instructions on their packaging so thankfully, the lunchtime and afternoon cooking is very slightly easier to navigate than the breakfast type. There are several orders for chili cheese fries and Jughead somehow manages to heat up the chili he finds in the refrigerator without incident. 

  
  
  
  
  


At the end of the evening, when dusk has settled over the concrete outside and he’s cleaned the surfaces in the kitchen, Jughead joins Sweet Pea at the counter with a basket of fries piled high with as many toppings as he can find. 

“You gonna have to advertise for a new chef?”

He stuffs in a handful of fries, barely chewing before he swallows. “Maybe. Tall Boy might come back.”

“Thought he might’ve gotten over it by now.”

“I think the medical bills he’s still paying are making it harder.”

Sweet Pea sighs. “I didn’t know the Ghoulies were gonna be there.”

“It was a risk,” Jughead replies, stuffing in more fries. “A stupid one.”

“And I regret it. I mean fuck! I wasted five years in jail!”

A lump forms in Jughead’s throat and his voice is low. “How’s my dad?”

“You know FP - he’ll be fine.”

“He told me not to visit him.”

“I know.”

“But he’s okay?” he asks. “Staying out of trouble?”

“It’s jail Jughead,” Sweet Pea says. “There’s always trouble.”

  
  
  
  
  


The following day, having spent a half hour after his shower on a variety of cookery websites, Jughead opens the diner armed with the correct ratio for pancake batter. He remembers to pick up some cream from the bodega on the corner two blocks down: they don’t have any he can whip so he settles for the stuff from a can. Better than nothing, he decides.

Unsurprisingly, they don’t have blueberries either, but he spies some chocolate chips and wonders if that might be the next best thing. 

Sweet Pea arrives on time, clearly having showered, though Jughead doesn’t ask where he stayed. The courtesy he’s extending goes no further than the diner for the time being, but judging by the fact he looks at least semi-well-rested, Jughead thinks it’s more than likely that Toni has offered her couch, as opposed to Fangs offering his. 

“All of the tables need cutlery, sauces, salt and pepper, syrup and coffee cups,” he says. We open in a half hour.”

“Got it. You been here long?” Sweet Pea asks. “This morning I mean.”

He glances up at the clock. “Twenty minutes. Thought I should get a start on a few things.”

Thirty seven minutes later, the bell chimes and they have their first customer of the day. Jughead is on the diner side of the door pouring himself his second cup of coffee of the when he hears the same, “Good morning,” he heard yesterday. 

He turns and both he and Sweet Pea reply at the same time. At least the diner’s newest employee is making an effort, he thinks.

“A little cheerier today,” she muses with a sort-of sparkle in her eyes. She’s wearing a cardigan over her sundress - a reminder that despite the warmer weather of late, the mornings and evenings are still cool - and the colour of the cotton matches her eyes. Jughead isn’t sure how to respond to that (he wonders if he should feel offended; wonders why he _ doesn’t _ )

“I’ve had more coffee this morning,” he replies, and her lips quirk into a smile. It looks good on her.

“What can I get for you?” Sweet Pea asks. Jughead wonders whether it feel as strange saying it as it does hearing it. It’s a far cry from how things were when they were both still kids, thinking they knew everything. (And realising too late that they didn’t)

“A number one and a number seven please,” she replies. “And uh… coffee too.”

“We’re still out of blueberries,” Jughead hears himself say. “We have cream today but it’s from a can.”

Her lips quirk in amusement again. “Plain is fine.” She’s smiling as she says it. “But I’ll go for some canned cream.”

“We have chocolate chips?” he offers, suddenly overwhelmed with a strange urge to please her. 

“Plain is good,” she says. “Honestly.”

“You don’t like chocolate chip pancakes?”

“Not really.”

He wishes he’d bought the bodega’s only mango. And then he wishes he hadn’t just had that thought. 

“One number one, one number seven minus the blueberries,” Sweet Pea confirms. “And coffee.”

She nods and the bell rings, signalling a second customer. Jughead tries to fight the rising panic about having two at once, and heads into the kitchen.

His pancake batter is resting like the online recipe told him it should be (preferably for a minimum of twenty minutes) and he waves his hand over the griddle. It’s hot but not smoking, and he tests a tiny amount of batter on the surface. It browns without holes forming and he decides he might as well go for it, pouring three close-to-circular shapes onto the griddle. He flips them once the edges have formed a solid, golden crust, and steps back to admire his work. Not too bad, he decides, for the first attempt of the day.

When the second side is done, he flips them onto the plate he’s remembered to warm, then grabs the can of cream from the refrigerator. It doesn’t come out quite like he’d intended - the neat peaks he’d wanted to make looking more like a young child’s handiwork, but he dusts the pancakes in powdered sugar anyway.

“Order up!” he shouts as he dings the bell Tall Boy used to hit. Sweet Pea enters the kitchen clutching the next order and Jughead gets to work on two more batches of plain pancakes.

At lunch, an order for a number thirty-three comes in and he officially panics. He blames his ineptitude on growing up on microwave dinners and frozen eggos, and spends at least three minutes thinking of nothing but how he wishes he’d paid attention all of the times Tall Boy made the grilled chili-shrimp salad. There’s a sauce that needs to be made, Jughead knows, though what out of he’s not sure. Sweet chili and honey maybe, oil and seasoning obviously, but he has no idea of the ratio (much like yesterday’s pancakes) and he also discovers, when he looks in the freezer, that they’re out of shrimp. Jughead’s almost certain there isn’t anything he can substitute for that.

With a sigh, he dings the bell and Sweet Pea comes to collect the order that isn’t ready.

“That last order for a thirty-three,” he says. “You’ll have to tell them we’re out of shrimp.”

“Ok. Should I offer her something else? Or like, give her a free bagel or something?”

Jughead frowns. “No, why?”

“We were out of blueberries this morning and yesterday but she’s still eating here. And no offence but the cream on her pancakes earlier looked pretty shitty.”

“Is it the girl in the green cardigan?” he asks. “The blonde one?”

“You know her?”

“No, but…”  _ shit _ , he thinks. He needs to get it together with the ordering. The bell chimes back in the diner and Jughead rubs anxiously at the back of his neck. As much as he and Tall Boy never had the best relationship, there was something good to be said for the man’s cooking.  

There is  _ nothing _ good to be said for  _ Jughead’s _ cooking. Now they have more customers and he’s failing harder than he could’ve thought possible. Perhaps they need to limit the menu to only things that can be dropped into the fryer. 

Maybe, if he shoves on enough toppings, he can disguise eggos as something close to acceptable too.

“Just tell her our supplier cancelled and all we have are burgers and fries. I think I can figure those out.”

Sweet Pea nods and heads back out to the front of the diner and Jughead gets to work on shoving a hot dog into a bun. He adds fries to the plate too, winces slightly at the presentation and hits the bell again.

“Order up!”

His newest employee doesn’t reenter the kitchen, and when Jughead goes to hit the bell a second time, he realises he can hear the doorbell chiming at the other side of the wall. Grabbing the plate with the hot dog and fries, he wipes his forehead on his forearm and heads out front. There are a handful of customers seated in booths - they’re not busy by any standards, but if any more customers join them, Jughead worries there might be an epic culinary disaster. Or he might have a heart attack. He passes the blonde girl on the way to his intended booth and she lifts her head momentarily to smile at him.

“I’m really sorry,” he tells her on his return, figuring Sweet Pea hasn’t yet made it over with the bad news (or good, perhaps, depending on how one might perceive it) “Our supplier cancelled and we have no shrimp.”

Her mouth twitches, almost like she’s holding back a laugh, and Jughead tilts his head. “What?”

“You’re a really bad liar.”

He contemplates a witty response, but it turns out he’s out of those too. “We  _ are _ out of shrimp. But only because I forgot to order it.”

“Then I guess I can blame you when I have to run an extra two kilometres after I order chili fries again.”

“Again?”

“I had them yesterday. They were an improvement on the pancakes,” she tells him. “They were a little tough.”

“Shit,” he says, rubbing his forearm over his brow again. “Sorry.” 

The girl shugs and a wave of blonde hair tumbles over her shoulder. “That’s okay. Today’s were a huge improvement.”

He’s not really sure if it’s a compliment but it means something nonetheless. When he opens his mouth to confirm the chili fries, he realises there’s a smile on his lips and forces it back into submission.

“So, chili fries?”

“Perfect,” she replies. “Thank you.”

He notifies Sweet Pea of the change and heads back into the kitchen.

  
  
  
  
  


Halfway through the afternoon, during their lull, Jughead makes himself a sandwich on questionably fresh bread and sets to work on figuring out what they need to order. It turns out to be pretty much everything, but that’s a bill they can’t afford and so he settles for the necessities. 

He makes a sandwich too for Sweet Pea and takes it out front where he’s wiping tables. The blonde girl is still sitting in her booth typing away, and he finds himself walking over with the coffee pot before he’s even realised where he’s heading.

“Top up?” he asks.

Her eyes flick up to his and she considers the tiny amount of liquid left in her cup. “I probably shouldn’t.”

“Fair enough.”

“The fries were good by the way,” she tells him as he’s heading back to the counter. 

“Really?”

“Perfect potato to chili ratio.”

Her cheeks are pink and Jughead wonders if she’s flirting with him. About food.

It’s weirdly kind of great.

“If the pancakes yesterday were so tough,” he asks, “Why’d you order them again?”

“I figured the chef was having a bad day.”

“He was.”

She nods with a knowing smile. “Also...I uh...I was kind of hoping if I asked whether you were hiring, you might say yes.” Her bottom lip disappears between her teeth and for the first time, she seems a little nervous. “And then I was hoping you might hire me.”

So she wasn’t flirting after all. She just wanted a job. 

Fair enough, he thinks. It is, also, unsurprising. 

  
  
  
  
  


Sweet Pea takes a seat opposite him at the counter and glances over at Betty, who’s wiping the tables like her life depends on it. Jughead wonders if they were even this clean when they were new. 

“So did you hire her because she’s pretty or did you hire her because she’s pretty?” Sweet Pea smirks.

Betty straightens up and moves on to the next table. “And did you tell her to wear those shorts?”

“It’s hot,” he replies feebly, swallowing as she bends over the formica again. “And for the record, no - I didn’t. And actually, she has waitress experience.”

“And she’s pretty.”

Yeah, he thinks, she is. But that’s by the by and they are now, he guesses, colleagues. Technically he’s her boss.

“You think she can cook?”

Betty straightens up again, tucks a stray strand of her behind her ear and smiles over at them. “All done.”

Jughead takes a sip of his coffee. “God, I hope so.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I told you there was no need for you to get a job B,” Veronica chides with a yawn as Betty slips into the pair of Keds by the door. “Seriously, waitressing at a greasy diner? Daddy doesn’t need the rent.”

“I’m not living here for free Veronica,” she replies. She also knows that there’s no way her pay is going to cover even  _ one quarter _ of the rent for this place, but upon her insistence that she at least pays  _ something _ towards the mortgage, Veronica had stated that her father would require no more than three hundred dollars. Bills would be included.

She knows she’s gotten lucky with this set-up and if she thinks about it too much, it makes her cringe. Working makes her feel like she’s earned at least some part of this decently-proportioned condo on a decent street in a decent area of the island. 

“Fine,” Veronica says, rolling her eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want Smithers to drive you? After all, Brooklyn is...well,  _ Brooklyn _ .”

“The subway is perfectly fine.”

“And you’ll be home for dinner?”

“I’m not sure,” Betty replies. “Jughead hasn’t exactly sorted my shift pattern yet.”

“I find it ridiculous that your boss’s name is  _ Jughead _ ,” Veronica muses. “What were his parents thinking?”

“I assume it’s a nickname.” She ties the laces on each of her shoes. 

“Then his real name must be worse.”

Betty thinks she might agree absently, and gives Veronica a quick wave as she heads out of the door. 

The air outside is still rather cool but the sun is already up and the forecast had said it would be another warm day. She tugs the sweater sleeves down her arms and wonders whether it might’ve been wiser to wear jeans. The diner, though, is incredibly warm: there are large windows on two sides which allow the sun to stream in, and it’s the work of several fans rather than an air conditioning unit that prevents the place from being unbearable. 

She boards the F at 2nd Avenue, still a little chilly, and manages to find a seat close to the doors of the carriage. That part of her journey is short, and Betty disembarks at York Street in order to walk the four blocks to her new place of work. When she arrives there, she can see Jughead at the coffee machine and she knocks lightly on the door for him to open it.

“Good morning,” she says brightly, but already she can tell he hasn’t had his coffee: she’s completed four shifts so far and until he’s two cups down, he communicates mainly in grunts, frowns and mumbles. 

The water is, thankfully, dripping through the filter into the jug though, so she figures it won’t be too long until they can have a conversation. There appears to be no Sweet Pea yet, nor Trev or Ethel (two supposed colleagues, though up until this point, she hasn’t met them) and so she gets to work on ensuring the coffee cups, sauces, salt and pepper shakers and sugar are all on each table. 

She’s almost done when Sweet Pea joins them - late for his shift - with what appears to be a hangover. His eyes are narrowed into dark slits and the stubble on his face looks at least two days old. 

The atmosphere is tense and Betty busies herself with the final few tables.

“Can I help with anything in the kitchen?” she asks once she’s finished. “We still have fifteen minutes.”

Jughead shoots a look at Sweet Pea but says nothing, and instead nods, heading into the kitchen. She follows, offering a smile to her co-worker who’s massaging his left temple rather roughly. He doesn’t return it with anything more than the briefest twitch of his lips. 

In the kitchen, Jughead is whisking the pancake batter he’d made earlier a little more vigorously than is probably necessary. 

“What can I do?” she asks.

“You know how to make salad dressing?”

“Which kind?”

“Any kind,” Jughead replies, still whisking the batter. 

“Sure. What were you thinking? Ranch? Something lighter like French?”

He stops whisking to blink at her. “I’ve never made salad dressing before,” he states, like it’s obvious. She’s curious as to why someone clearly very clueless about food is running a place like this, but she’s polite enough not to ask. He’s given her a job - and for that, she’s very grateful. 

“Okay.”

“What do people like?”

Betty considers her response carefully. “For a burger and fries? Probably a little ranch. If it’s something like a Greek salad, then it needs to be lighter.”

“We can’t just use the same one? Isn’t there a universal salad dressing that goes with everything? Mayo?”

She can’t help the giggle that tumbles out of her lips. “Mayo isn’t a dressing Jug,” she says. “It’s a condiment.”

“Oh,” he replies, but there’s a hint of a smile on his lips.

“Leave the dressing to me.”

She makes two - something close to ranch and then one using honey, mustard, oil, vinegar and lime juice. Jughead looks slightly taken aback when he tries each of them, then thanks her somewhat awkwardly while his left hand rubs at the back of his neck. He does that a lot, she’s noticed.

Sweet Pea does it too.

  
  
  
  


Partway through their shift, the dishwasher breaks. Betty’s at the counter putting a fresh filter into the coffee machine when she hears Jughead’s, “Shit!” from the other side of the door. Sweet Pea must hear it too because he lifts his head in the general direction of the kitchen, eyes her warily and then must decide he’s better off pouring coffee and fetching extra napkins for the handful of patrons seated in booths.

Betty finishes up with the filter and heads into the kitchen.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

“The dishwasher broke,” he replies in a mumble, flipping the burger on the grill a little too forcefully. Fat splatters out at him and burns his arm (she watches him flinch, but he doesn’t say anything). 

“I’ll fill the sink,” she says. “I can wash between customers; we’re not too busy anyway.”

Jughead sighs and then nods. He heads back over to the dishwasher, presses every button (which achieves nothing) and then opens and slams shut the door.

“It’s not insured,” he mutters. “And we can’t afford the repair.”

“Then we’ll wash until we can,” Betty tries brightly, hoping she’s able to mask the natural grimace that wants to form on her face: her hands get incredibly sore if they’re in water for too long and even though the scars on her palms are old now, prolonged exposure to abrasive dish soap does little to stop the redness creeping back in. 

She cleans the dishes that are stacked by the sink and then leaves them to drain while she checks on her customers out front. Most of them are finishing up and the few newer ones don’t order anything too taxing for Jughead, who remains in an irritable mood for the remainder of her shift. 

She leaves at three for her class at four, figuring she’ll just have to attend wearing the white t-shirt, sweater and shorts she’s had on all day. It’s the first time she’s had to go to class following a shift, and Betty figures next time, she should probably bring a change of clothing. No doubt she smells like grease and coffee and she doesn’t want to be  _ that _ student. 

By the time she gets back to the apartment she shares with Veronica, she’s starving and in desperate need of pizza from the little Italian pizzeria on the next block. They moved into the apartment Veronica’s father bought during the Easter break and have already ordered a shameful amount of food from Alessi’s. She should really eat a salad or at least something from a food group other than carbohydrates, but she’s tired, has an assignment to begin and also has another shift at the diner in the morning. 

Upon opening the door to the apartment, she’s surprised not to find Veronica waiting to complain that she’s starving too. There’s a note on the counter: 

 

**Out with Nick. Don’t wait up.**

**V x**

 

Betty has met Nick St Clair a handful of times - all of them brief - and hasn’t yet been able to gauge quite what he and Veronica are to each other. She knows they met in high school and had some sort of relationship, but her best friend openly admits to never having had a real boyfriend, so Betty supposes things must’ve been casual then too. Always careful not to form an opinion too early about someone lest she be wrong, she’s tried to engage him in a series of somewhat stilted conversations when they’ve been in the apartment at the same time. She can’t say she dislikes him.

She can’t exactly say she  _ likes _ him either.

Betty orders her pizza and then takes a quick shower, grateful to rid her hands of the itch from the dish soap at the diner, and dresses again in the comfortable jersey shorts she loves so much. They’re old now - part of her cheerleading practice uniform from her days of the River Vixens - but getting them in the first place was a big achievement and she’s not ready to part with them yet.

The pizza arrives when she’s got Friends playing on the tv in the background, the volume turned so low she can’t actually hear what’s going on. Open on her laptop is her latest assignment: mastering the art of the literary interview, but she’s a little too tired to give it her full attention.

Eventually, she makes the call to close the laptop and turn up the volume of the tv. There’s a half-eaten tub of sweet cream and cookies ice cream in the freezer, and she digs at it with a spoon absently, only realising when she hears the telltale scrape of metal against the carton that she’s eaten more than she should have.

Veronica is drunk when she arrives home. She drops her keys on the floor and Betty hears her giggle and then shush loudly. Pulling the sheets up over her head, she rolls over, resting her cheek against the cooler second pillow as her best friend’s bedroom door slams shut. 

  
  
  
  
  


For the first time since she started working at the diner, Betty shares her shift with Trev Brown. He’s the same age as her, not particularly fast when it comes to serving customers, but he’s kind and asks her lots of questions about Riverdale. He’s from a small town too, a little further south than her, but from what he tells her, it sounds like they had a similar kind of upbringing. She likes him immediately. 

It’s Saturday, so they’re a little busier than what she’s previously experienced and the dishwasher is still broken. When Betty takes the first few plates to the sink in the kitchen however, there’s a pair of pink rubber gloves waiting.

“You don’t have to wear them,” Jughead tells her, having realised what she’s looking at. “I just thought they might stop your hands getting sore.” He rubs the back of his neck again with his hand, and the action makes the sleeves of his white t-shirt ride up. She thinks she might see a hint of black ink poking out of the bottom. “We buy the cheaper dish liquid and uh...I just…”

Trev ends his rambling by entering the kitchen with another order. Betty thinks her cheeks might be a little flushed as she pulls on the gloves and squirts a glug of soap into the sink. 

“You okay out there?” she asks.

“Yeah, should be fine,” Trev replies. “I’ll let you know when I need you.”

He needs her approximately fifteen minutes later. In addition to the plates and coffee cups, she’s managed to scrub a few of the pans Jughead has brought over but by the time she takes two more orders and sets them on the hanger to the left of the door, there are more things to wash and the front of the diner is steadily filling with customers. 

She can tell her boss is stressed. Each time she brings in an order, he seems to wince and by ten am, she’s taken to saying,

“It’s only pancakes,” when it is, indeed, only pancakes. Each time she chirps it though, his lips twitch into something resembling a smile so Betty counts it as a win. 

“We haven’t been this busy in a long time,” he tells her as she’s putting up yet another order - this one for two plates of scrambled eggs and toast.

She knows Sweet Pea’s shift is supposed to start later, though she hesitates in asking about it considering the atmosphere between him and Jughead the last time they worked together. 

“It’s good for business though right?” she replies, tugging a little self-consciously at the hem of her shorts. They ride up each time she stretches to place an order on the hanger and as much as she knows her legs aren’t in _ bad _ shape, she doesn’t need to be showing too much of them to anyone either. Betty can sense Jughead’s eyes on her and she reminds herself that jeans shorts probably aren’t a good idea. 

(He’s no doubt thinking the same)

“Right,” he says, and then clears his throat. After plating the pancakes he’s cooking, he dusts with the powdered sugar and hands the plates to her. “Table ten,” he confirms, and off she goes. 

  
  
  
  
  


There’s a lull around three in the afternoon which allows Betty to take a very late lunch break. Jughead makes her a cheese sandwich but it’s hot and the bread is dry and there are a thousand and one things to do before the amount of customers picks up again heading into the evening. She manages to eat half and then tries to discreetly throw the remaining part in the trash. Just as she’s disguising the bread with a napkin however, Jughead catches her.

“You didn’t like it?” he questions, looking vaguely hurt. Betty mentally chastises herself.

“It’s not that,” she says. “It’s just hot and I’m not really that hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten in at least seven hours.”

She dips her head, embarrassed. “We have lots to do,” she tries. 

Jughead wipes at his forehead and sighs. “What was wrong with the sandwich Betty?”

She swallows. “The bread was a little dry.”

“Shit!” he says. “I’m sorry - you’ve been working so hard. Let me make you something else.”

Immediately, he heads to the refrigerator and pulls out the remaining slices of bread, then scrunches his nose when he must realise they’re stale too. “You like fries right?” he asks. “Chili fries? Let me make you some of those.”

Her hand automatically reaches out for his to stop him, her mouth opening to say _ I’m fine; I don’t need anything else _ , but she feels something pulse through her at the contact. The words get clogged in her throat somewhere but finally, she manages to say, “You must be hungry too.”

He looks at her hand on his and she drops it quickly, like she’s been burned. Her cheeks flame more than they had earlier, but he’s gracious enough to say,

“We can share. But I want you to sit down to eat.”

“Yes boss,” she jokes - and a smile creeps across Jughead’s lips. He looks younger when he smiles, she decides, almost like a pre-Titanic Leo Dicaprio. 

While he throws some more fries into the fryer and sets the basket in the hot oil, Betty pulls on the rubber gloves and sets to work with the remainder of the dishes. She’d managed to blast through one load earlier which had rid them of anything breakfast-related but there are burger plates still being cleared away by Trev and Sweet Pea, neither of whom have complained about their sandwiches. Betty feels terrible all over again.

By the time the fries are ready and Jughead’s poured over a generous helping of the chili he’d made a couple days ago, she’s managed to complete the dishes and they’re stacked somewhat precariously on the side of the sink.

“Okay,” he tells her as she pulling off the gloves. “Sit. Eat.”

There are no stools for them to use and he hops up onto the counter, motioning for her to join him. It’s no doubt against health and safety regulations but he’s her boss so she does as he says.  

The fries are good and the chili, despite not being particularly flavourful,  _ does _ fill a hole that she maybe hadn’t realised was there. Jughead frowns as he stuff in a handful of the food.

“What is it?” Betty asks.

“The chili isn’t right. Tall Boy made it way better than this.”

“Did you use his recipe?” she asks, not hugely bothered. He’s right - Tall Boy had made it better, but all it needs is a little extra chipotle, a splash of worcestershire sauce to add a little tang and maybe some red wine. It’s an easy fix and she tells him as such.

“He didn’t really have recipes. Just...made them up.”

“Oh.”

With another mouthful of fries, he says, “If I can just keep going until my dad gets back.”

“Your dad owns this place?” she questions. “Is he on a trip or something?”

“No,” Jughead replies somberly. 

It’s quiet for a moment and Betty chews her fries slowly, feeling like she’s asked the wrong question. And then, he adds,

“He’s in jail.”

They eat the rest of the fries in silence but Betty is no longer hungry.

  
  
  
  
  


The lull doesn’t last much longer than an hour. It’s barely enough time to clean all of the surfaces down and make the list for the delivery companies before they’re hit with the next wave of customers. She’d hoped to leave mid-afternoon today in order to do a little more work on her assignment but Jughead actually needs her here. 

It’s been a while since she’s had that - a while since she’s been _ needed _ .

It makes her feel strangely powerful and so when a group of four guys likely her age take up a seat in her section, Betty strides over with purpose, notepad and pen at the ready.

The order is four burgers - nothing Jughead can’t handle - and she hangs it up to the left of the door. 

“Four burgers,” she tells him. “Hold the salad on each.”

“Their loss,” he shrugs. “Guess they won’t get to taste your dressing.”

An involuntary smile takes over her lips and her heart swells a little. She shrugs too - an attempt to be nonchalant. “More for everyone else.”

The bell of the diner door chimes and she heads back out front again. When Jughead shouts “Order up!” around fifteen minutes later, Betty takes in the wave of dark hair flopping out from under the hat on his head. She finds it strange that he wears what looks to be a knitted beanie in such a hot environment but has to admit, he looks pretty good it in. At that moment, he looks up and his blue eyes meet hers. 

“Four burgers; no salad,” he says in a strange tone. “Table seven.”

Her palms are a little sweaty when she takes hold of the plates, but she nods and heads back through the swing door. 

  
  
  
  
  


Sweet Pea turns the sign over in the door’s door to read ‘closed’ at seven pm. Trev had explained to her earlier that they tend not to stay open past then: in the dark, the area isn’t great safety-wise and by the time everything is clean, prepped and ready for the morning, dusk will be falling.

Betty doesn’t worry - the walk to the subway isn’t far and she’s alert enough to know which streets to avoid. They fold napkins together whilst sitting at the table with a huge basket of onion rings Jughead had thrown into the fryer a short while earlier. It’s a questionable call - eating something so greasy whilst folding the very items intended to  _ remove _ said grease from fingers - but she says nothing. 

They’re almost done when there’s a banging on the door.

“Can’t people fucking read?” Sweet Pea asks with a sigh before shoving one of the onion rings (whole) into his mouth. He rests his fists on the table, heavy rings and tattoos a stark contrast against the white formica. 

Jughead rises to answer the door and no sooner is it opened than she hears a very familiar voice shriek,

“Are you aware of the labor laws? I hope you’re paying the extra hour on top of what I can only imagine is a God-awful wage and-”

“-Veronica?”

Her best friend is striding towards the table with purpose, Jughead following behind with a rather bewildered expression.

“Thank  _ God  _ B,” she huffs dramatically. “You weren’t answering your phone. I had Smithers drive me here so I could check you were still alive. Are you being worked against your will?”

Betty simultaneously wants to laugh and hide away in embarrassment. “V, I’m fine,” she says pointedly. “We won’t be too much longer.”

She can see Sweet Pea eying her friend with a smirk. “Can we get you a coffee while you wait princess?”

Veronica narrows her eyes in disgust. “I’m nobody’s  _ princess _ . Especially not  _ yours _ .” And then, “Are you eating  _ onion rings _ whilst folding napkins?” 

“Yes,” he replies bluntly. “About that coffee -”

“- I’ll take it to go,” she says. “Assuming you have take out cups, that is.”

“You should go with your friend,” Jughead tells Betty as her collegue heads over to the pot. “You must be exhausted. We’ll finish up here.”

She  _ is _ exhausted, but she’s also aware that he was at work before she started and he’ll be here tomorrow too. And then the next day. And the following one (and every day after that - at least until he finds a chef or the original one returns)

“I was going to help with the chili,” she reminds him. “And I’m fine. Really.”

“We’ll have bland ground beef for another few days,” he shrugs. “It’s hardly the worst of our problems. And you have school work right?”

She opens her mouth to argue but again, Jughead beats her to it. “As your boss, I’m ordering you to leave.”

“Creamer?” she hears Sweet Pea ask Veronica. “Or a little  _ sugar _ ?”

She’s almost certain he’s flirting with her. She thinks she might see Jughead roll his eyes. 

“Just black,” Veronica replies. She leaves five dollars on the counter and waits over by the door without another word his way. “Ready Betty?”

She bids everyone a goodbye for the night and then climbs into the back of Veronica’s parents’ car. The air inside is cool and refreshing and her head sinks back against the rest as she gazes out of the window, leaving Brooklyn behind. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments and kudos for the past two chapters :)

Just over a week after the dishwasher breaks, they finally have enough money to pay an engineer to come out and fix it. As it turns out, the problem is some sort of loose connection - not anything too taxing or expensive - and Jughead is somewhat pleased to discover that there’s actually a little money spare. He debates putting a little extra in his dad’s commissary but then decides it might be more sensible to keep it in case they have a bad week. 

Betty arrives with an umbrella and a large bag, knocking at the door for him to let her in for the start of her shift. She’s a little early as she often is, and she shakes off the rainwater from the umbrella’s folds. 

“Morning,” she chirps, sunny despite the weather’s decision to ignore the fact that it’s now June and nobody in New York signed up for rain. She’s wearing a light pink anorak with a hood and when she takes it off, Jughead’s surprised to find himself disappointed that she’s not wearing shorts. 

“Morning,” he replies, closing the door behind her. “You get wet out there?”

It’s a stupid question: she’s very obviously dry thanks to her jacket and umbrella combo, and he wonders why the words even left his mouth. 

“No, I’m good,” she replies. “I almost got drenched by a truck driving way too fast through a puddle but I angled this.” She raises the umbrella in her left hand. “Just in time.”

“You want coffee?” Jughead asks. “The dishwasher’s fixed so that’s carved you out an extra ten minutes.”

“Oh no, I’m good,” she tells him. “I’ll make a start.”

“Betty.” His tone is a little softer than he’d meant it to be, but still. “If you want coffee, then have some. Everyone else does.”

She opens her mouth and he instantly knows what she’s going to say: he’s worked enough shifts with her now to know that her primary goal - other than doing her job better than anyone else here - is not to take advantage. He’s not sure he’s ever met anyone less likely to do that in his life.

“You’re  _ not _ taking advantage,” he cuts in, and she blushes. “It costs, like, a dollar and you work hard.”

Her reply of “thanks,” is quiet but he hears it -  _ just _ . He wants to say  _ you’re welcome _ or  _ you deserve it _ but then Sweet Pea arrives and he decides to say nothing. 

“So Betty, how’d your friend like her coffee?” Jughead hears him ask. He was on his way to the other side of the door to get started on the pancake batter but this is the first shift both Betty and Sweet Pea have worked together since her best friend picked her up in an actual  _ town car _ . He’s actually kind of intrigued by the upcoming answer given that after the girls had left, he’d been forced to listen to his childhood friend say,

_ “I’m gonna give her things she didn’t even know she wanted.” _

He had, afterwards, felt mildly nauseous. 

“Oh,” Betty says, sounding surprised. Jughead can tell from her tone that the follow-up isn’t strictly accurate. “She liked it. Nice and strong.”

Sweet Pea looks somewhat impressed with himself and Jughead continues into the kitchen.

  
  
  
  


As he’d expected, the combination of bad weather and the fact that it’s Monday results in lower-than-usual footfall, meaning that by ten am, there are only a handful of customers in the diner. He finishes up the last order on the hanger: two number sevens (Betty had smiled when reading it to him - they have both cream  _ and _ blueberries today) and rings the bell.

“Order up!”

She bustles into the kitchen and compliments him on the way he’s dusted the pancakes with powdered sugar, which shouldn’t make him want to smile as much as it does. He holds back enough for just a twitch of his lips as he nods at her.

In minutes, she’s back - not with another order - but with a hopeful expression on her face that’s equal parts adorable and concerning.

“Betty?”

“Not that you’re doing it wrong,” she begins tentatively, clasping her hands together as her bottom lip disappears between her teeth. “But I thought that while it’s quiet, maybe I could make a start on a deep clean.”

“Deep clean?” Jughead questions.

“The things we don’t normally get the chance to do,” she explains. “Wipe out all of the shelves behind the counter; polish the silverware, that kind of thing.”

He’s a little taken aback. Nobody has ever wanted to do any of these chores before, even when his dad was here (and admittedly, Jughead didn’t spend too much time paying attention to the diner side of things - he had schoolwork then: assignments, revision notes, all-nighters spent cramming for tests, but he’s pretty positive nobody would’ve taken it upon themselves to do such chores regardless)

“Is that okay?” Betty asks, and he realises it’s been a few moments since he’s said anything.”

“Uh yeah. Yes.”

“Great,” she grins and Jughead realises she genuinely  _ does _ want to clean the shelves. “I brought some of my cleaning supplies from the apartment - I wasn’t sure what you’d have. Clorox is okay, right?”   

His eyebrows knit together and he rubs at the back of his neck. “Yeah. Fine. Clorox is… fine.”

In a half hour, every shelf housing cups, plates and glasses has been wiped clean of any dust or stray crumbs and Jughead is starting to think he could use this cleaning fluid as a decongestant the next time he catches a cold. 

“My eyes are burning,” Sweet Pea moans. “I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere this clean.”

Betty rolls hers and Jughead allows himself to chuckle. She’s wearing the rubber gloves he’d purchased just after the dishwasher had broken (he’d seen her scratching at her hands after she’d spent the day doing dishes in the sink and three dollars had seemed a small price to pay to ensure she didn’t break the skin) and is cheerfully scrubbing a toothbrush along the grout where the tiles meet the shelf. A strand of her hair keeps tumbling into her eyes and he watches as she blows it back out of her way with a burst of air from her lips. 

She’s beautiful, he thinks abruptly.

And then he excuses himself to the kitchen to get over that thought.

Sweet Pea brings him an order not too long after, and Jughead actually feels relieved at having to scramble some eggs. Once they and toast are ready, he hits the bell and shouts his usual,

“Order Up.”

Sweet Pea arrives to collect the two plates and says, “You think it’s too early in the shift for me to ask for her friend’s number.”

“That would be Betty’s friend with a town car and a  _ driver _ ?”

“Your point?”

“Our league,” Jughead retorts. “ _ Their  _ league.”

“Rich girls like a bad boy,” he grins, picking up the plates. “Haven’t you heard that song Uptown Girl?”

Jughead has, of course, heard of it. He’s also heard of the word  _ realistic _ . Sweet Pea disappears with the food and he’s saved from having to answer in actual words. A raise of the eyebrow does just fine.

He’s cleaning off the skillet when he returns clutching an order in his hand that he doesn’t hang up. 

“It’s a hot chocolate,” Sweet Pea says. “I don’t know how to make it.”

Jughead suppresses a sigh and wipes his hands on the towel. Until five months ago, he didn’t know how to make hot chocolate either. “The stuff’s on the other side,” he says, indicating the swing door. “I’ll show you.”

Betty has removed her rubber gloves and is inspecting the results of their handiwork. Jughead has to admit, there’s no way those shelves would’ve ever had that level of cleaning were it not for her and as much as he would’ve rather spent the time figuring out how to make a better tasting chili, it _ is _ a job well done.

“The scoop’s in the jar,” he tells Sweet Pea. “One heaped scoop into the mug and then you can just add hot water. Top it with whip cream - we don’t do marshmallows.”

Betty’s ponytail whips around and he can see her wincing as Sweet Pea adds the water from the dispenser.

“What?”

“That’s not how it should be made.”

He blinks, confused. “What do you mean?”

Her voice is gentle when she says, “Jug,” ( _ God _ , there’s a lilt to the way she says it that does something inside of his chest) “You’re supposed to use hot milk.”

She’s looking at the results of their work like she pities the creation; like using water has somehow wounded the feelings of the cocoa. 

He sees Sweet Pea’s cocked eyebrow but chooses to ignore it.

“We don’t have a milk frother so we’ll have to use a pan,” Betty decides.  _ We _ . She grabs another mug and heads to the kitchen. Jughead isn’t sure whether she expects them both to follow her, but they do (perhaps stupidly - considering it leaves the front of the diner empty of staff) 

“Measure the milk in the mug so we don’t waste any,” she explains. He’d commend her on her resourcefulness but she’s eyeing the level of the liquid as it rises and he doesn’t want to put her off. “And then tip it into the pan,” she says. “Do you have a milk pan?”

Probably not, Jughead guesses. “There’s a small one. Hang on.” He fetches it like he’s her lapdog and again, Sweet Pea has a single eyebrow raised to accompany his smirk. 

“Thank you.”

Ever polite.

They watch Betty pour the milk into the pan and then head to the stove. “We don’t want it to boil, just warm until the little bubbles form on the surface and the milk begins to froth.”

“Maybe one of us should check out front,” Jughead suggests, meaning for it to be him because his mouth is starting to water and he’s a little worried it might not just be because of the hot chocolate. Sweet Pea beats him to it though (he is closer to the door after all) and then it’s just him and Betty.

“Hot chocolate’s my favourite,” she grins. “In winter anyway.”

“Marshmallows?”

“Of course. And cream.” And then she adds, “Ooh, and a little sprinkle of cocoa powder on the top.”

He’s smiling at her and  _ shit _ , this isn’t what he’d intended to get himself into when he hired her. Thankfully, Sweet Pea joins them again, just as the milk is beginning to froth and rise up the pan. 

“You can’t just pour it over the powder: it’ll have lumps,” Betty instructs. “So if you make a paste by pouring just a little of the milk into the mug, then you can add the rest gradually. The foam should sit on top.”

Jughead has to admit, it  _ does _ look better than the original. All that’s left is the cream. And, now that Betty mentions it, perhaps they should sprinkle on a dusting of cocoa. (But only because the customers will enjoy it and not because he’s picturing the look of proud satisfaction on her face) 

“A spoon of cream,” she adds, heading back to the refrigerator. She uses her pinky to slide it into the mug without the hot chocolate splashing over the side and then pops it into her mouth. Jughead instantly regrets watching her. With her other hand, she sprinkles the tiniest amount of cocoa on the top and yeah, it looks  _ way _ better than the original.  

Clasping her hands in front of her, Betty steps back. “There.”

“Looks good,” Sweet Pea announces. “But the water thing is way easier.”

She pushes at him playfully but he laughs and takes hold of the mug, heading back out to the front of the diner. 

“I hope you don’t think I meant to interfere,” she says suddenly. “Maybe you wanted to make the hot chocolate with water - I didn’t think and -”

“- Betty,” He places a hand on her arm to stop her. Her skin is warm and soft beneath his fingers and he removes them quickly. “Any advice is welcome. It’s not like Sweet Pea and I know what we’re doing and you’re probably our best shot at repeat customers.”

She exhales slowly with a nod and lifts the corners of her lips into a smile again. “Thank you.” The bell chimes out in the diner and she makes her way to the door. “But for the record,” she says. “I think you’re doing just fine.”

  
  
  
  
  


“Do you have school work?” Jughead asks Betty after they’ve completed the lunchtime rush - if they could call it that. Their customers are few and far between and they’re not likely to get any busier during the afternoon: the weather is still pretty miserable and there aren’t many people walking past anyway. Someone might as well finish up for the day.

“I’m working on an assignment,” she answers, wiping her cloth along the counter. He’s not really sure what she’s cleaning - there isn’t a single smudge of grease anywhere. Maybe it’s habit. “It’s not due for another week though.”

“If you want to get off,” he says, “We’ll be okay.”

“Oh.” She seems a little surprised. “Uh…I didn’t have any plans. I can stay if you want me to.”

Thing is, he thinks he  _ might _ want her to. And therein lies the problem.

“If Betty stays, does that mean I can go?” Sweet Pea asks, slinging a towel over his shoulder. 

Jughead raises an eyebrow. “Do you have plans?”

“I might.”

He wonders if said plans involve calling Betty’s friend Veronica. 

“I don’t mind staying,” she repeats. “We can work on your chili if you like?”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Sweet Pea says. “The last one sucked. Jail did it better and I don’t think they even had real meat.”

He catches Betty’s startled gasp, and then notes the way she tries to hide her reaction by rubbing at the counter top a little harder. She’s polite enough not to say anything but he figures she’ll have questions. 

Who wouldn’t?

“You really don’t mind staying?” 

“I’d be happy to,” she replies, though there’s a strange edge to her voice that hadn’t been there before. He hopes she isn’t frightened of Sweet Pea. Of them. Of  _ him _ .

“Thanks Cooper,” he says, and it stirs up something unsettling in Jughead’s stomach. They’re on nickname terms. Maybe they have _ banter _ .

The thought tastes sour and he swallows it quickly.

Sweet Pea leaves less than five minutes later with a hot dog wrapped in foil and an absurdly large squeeze of mustard coating the bun. And then he’s left alone with Betty.

When the bell chimes as she’s filling the sugar pots, he can’t be sure whether he’s grateful for the three female customers or not. They each order a slice of cherry pie which is easy enough for him to prepare: they buy the refrigerated desserts from their supplier so all he really needs to do is pop the slices in the oven to crisp the pastry and warm the fruit.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” he hears Betty ask brightly. “Coffee? Hot chocolate?”

The second option results in a round of enthusiastic  _ ooohs _ and he can sense the smile on her lips despite the fact that all he can see are the perfect waves of her blonde ponytail.  

They each order a hot chocolate and she even sells them whip cream as an extra. Jughead knows he should be concentrating on the pie but when his newest waitress joins him in the kitchen, asking if he wouldn’t mind fetching her the little pan from earlier (and then smiling at him when he does) concentrating on  _ anything _ but her becomes difficult.

She has the customers’ drinks ready just a little before the pie is heated through, so by the time she returns to the kitchen, Jughead’s dusting the powdered sugar on top. 

“Looks good,” Betty observes.

All he’s done is cut the slices and placed them first in the oven, then on a plate and yet still he has that feeling you get as a young child at school - proud of a simple achievement. 

His “thanks” is mumbled but she takes hold of the three plates, somehow balancing them all with ease. His mouth must be open because she laughs into the air.

“What?”

“I’ve never seen anyone carry three plates before.”

“When they’re light like this,” she tells him, “It’s easy.”

Because he’s obviously going to spend the day indulging himself, he watches her walk away with a little spring in her step. It makes him grin.

(And then groan internally)

  
  
  
  
  


Jughead makes the decision to close the diner at five thirty. Considering he has to pay Betty and the bills, he figures it’s better to cut his losses. Besides, she’s promised to help him with the chili and they may as well make a start. 

She busies herself with collecting the ingredients they’ll need - which is a surprisingly large number of items he hadn’t even considered - as he checks the cash register and sweeps the diner floor. 

“Okay,” she smiles, leaning against the counter. “Ready when you are.”

Jughead finishes up and then takes the sweeping brush back to its rightful place in the tiny store room just off of the kitchen. He joins her at the counter where she’s got two chopping boards, a selection of knives and a huge pan waiting.

“First, we’re going to chop and then cook the onions until they’re translucent,” Betty explains. “Chop them finely, but you know how to do that anyway.”

He does. 

“That’s great,” she says after a few minutes, eyes cast over his work like she’s a teacher assessing her pupil. In a way, Jughead supposes, she is.

They continue to cut quietly until they’ve chopped their way through the onions Betty had set out. He lights the ring on the stove and they stand side-by-side, both watching the pan as she stirs the little pieces of onion with a wooden spoon. 

“We’re going to brown the meat next,” she tells him, leaving his side to fetch the packets of ground beef from the refrigerator. “Will you break up the pieces as I tip it in?”

“Sure,” he replies. If she asked him to, he’d probably strip garlic cloves with just his teeth. 

“Thanks.” Her voice is soft and her forearm brushes his as she guides the meat into the pan. She’s standing close enough that he can smell her hair. Strawberries. 

She smells like strawberries.

It’s quiet for a few moments as they both concentrate on their respective jobs. And then Betty asks,

“Does your mom ever work here?”

He stabs at a lump of the ground beef, eyes fixed downwards. “I haven’t seen my mom since I was thirteen.” 

His voice is flat as he says it - a direct contrast to the way she’d left in a blaze of glory: all screaming insults and slamming doors and _ fuck you FP; I’m leaving. And I’m taking Jellybean _ . Jellybean. Not Jughead.

_ Never Jughead _ . 

He got a model plane for his birthday the first year; a ten dollar bill in a plain white envelope at Christmas following that, and a card on his next birthday that said, simply,

_ Love mom _ .

No kisses. 

When nothing came at Christmas, he wasn’t surprised. (He didn’t feel much like celebrating anyway)

He can sense Betty’s regret at asking but can’t bring himself to say anything else. Eventually, in little more than a whisper, she says, “We can leave this on low. We should add the chillies and the tomatoes.”

Jughead nods and they turn back to the counter. She shows him how to finely dice the chipotles and then tells him about how, when she first moved to the city, she discovered the food place  _ Chipotle _ and even though she knows it’s not authentic Mexican, it might be her favourite. If she tells him only to lighten the mood, it works, and he finds himself feeling bad about the way he’d told her about his mom. 

“Betts…” The shortened version of her name slips out of his mouth and she looks up from under her eyelashes, knife hovering above the chili. “I didn’t mean to -”

“- Sorry for prying,” she jumps in. 

He shakes his head. “It’s okay, just… she’s… it’s easier not to talk about her.”

One side of her mouth curves into something like a smile, but it’s sad and it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I get it. You don’t have to tell me anything -”  

“ - My dad’s in jail for obstruction.”

“Oh.” 

“I saw the way you looked when Sweet Pea mentioned the chili in jail,” he tells her gently. “We’re… we were in a gang. A lot of stuff went down and then my dad decided to go straight - get his act together. He took on this place; worked hard to make it semi-respectable. And then one of the guys who was in the gang with us needed an alibi. My dad gave him one but as it turns out, that was a pretty shitty decision. And now he’s in jail upstate and I’m ruining this place.”

It’s silent for a moment save for the spluttering of the beef and onions in the pan on the stove, but then Betty asks, “Is he okay? Your dad I mean.”

A lump fills his throat and he doesn’t know what to say. Her eyes are soft as she looks at him, awaiting his answer, and Jughead considers his words carefully.

“I’m not sure.”

“Have you seen him?” she asks. “Since he went inside?”

“No.” 

The knife she’s been holding makes a dull clatter as she places it on the counter. Her fingers settle on his forearm and she sighs softly, turning towards him. “You’re not ruining this place Jug.”

Easy to say, he thinks, when she doesn’t know how much better it ran when his dad was at the helm. When he was free to focus on eating rather than cooking; researching information for his novel rather than buttermilk pancake recipes. 

Her fingers rub delicately over his skin and Jughead feels his own fingers go slack around the knife. He turns his body further towards her and when he looks up, she’s watching him with slightly parted lips. The bottom one disappears between her teeth and he breathes out slowly, feeling almost dizzy. 

And then,

“We should add the tomatoes before the meat burns,” she tells him. 

Her fingers leave his skin and only then does he realise that the hairs on his arm are raised. Quickly, he secures his grip tighter around the knife and continues chopping the chillies. 

  
  
  
  
  


He doesn’t expect to see Betty until the weekend: she’s not scheduled to work and he knows she has an upcoming assignment that requires most of her spare time (not that she has much, he figures) Three nights after she’d helped him make what is no doubt the diner’s best ever batch of chili, he leaves the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee and is surprised to see her sitting in one of the booths. She’s wearing a pink cardigan and her back is to him, but he’s seen that blonde ponytail enough times not to clock her quickly. 

His feet are taking him to her before he’s registered what’s happening.

“Can’t get enough of this place?” 

She jumps a little and instantly, Jughead feels bad for startling her. “Sorry,” he says guiltily, offers her a smile as he raises the coffee pot. “Top up?”

Her eyes flit to the nearly-empty cup and she smiles warmly back at him. “Sure. Thanks.”

They’re not too busy - there aren’t many people hanging around this part of the neighbourhood close to closing time, so there are no orders hanging up in the kitchen. He’s free to join her - if he wanted.

(If  _ she _ wanted) 

The coffee sloshes into her cup and almost spills over the rim but he manages to stop the flow just in time. 

“So what - you prefer our coffee to anything you can get in the East Village?” he jokes. Sweet Pea chooses that moment to join them, plopping himself down unceremoniously at the other side of the booth. 

“Actually, Veronica has a friend over so I’m… uh… giving them some privacy,” she replies. “If you know what I mean.” As soon as she’s finished speaking, she seems to register Sweet Pea’s reaction (his face falling and his eyes less crinkled in the corners - Jughead notes). “I like the atmosphere here,” she adds quickly.

“Have you been here a while?” Jughead asks, intending to change the subject and realising too late that his friend now has to sit here while they all find out how long Veronica has been having sex with someone else.

“Not too long,” she says, very obviously meaning  _ longer _ than  _ not long _ . Definitely longer than an hour or so, he guesses, and it’s awkward. Sweet Pea’s jaw muscles clench and his eyes are hard.

He’s jealous.

“Your assignment?” Jughead questions, nodding at the screen.

“Yeah, it’s...it’s a struggle.”

“How come?” He perches on the edge of the booth and Betty shuffles along to make room. 

“You know those times when the phrases you want are literally _ right there _ , but you just can’t bring them to the front of your mind?”

He doesn’t reply in words, but tilts his head so he can see her face. 

“That’s practically this whole assignment.” She sighs and he reaches his hand around her back to her left shoulder, his fingers rubbing gently. It’s an instinctive reaction - not one he plans - but he registers Sweet Pea’s questioning look and abruptly halts the movement. 

But then,  _ then _ , she bends her arm at the elbow and her fingers come to rest over his. Her eyes are still cast towards the screen of her laptop, almost like she hasn’t realised what she’s done. 

“I should go clear that table,” Sweet Pea murmurs, barely excusing himself. Jughead knows he should also leave her to it: he has prep to do ready for the morning but Betty’s so close, her little white sundress with its tiny flowers reaching a stop above her knee; the skin of her shoulder warm beneath his hand. 

“I should go too,” he says reluctantly, squeezing gently with his fingers. She drops her hand back to her lap. “Can I get you anything to eat?”

“I’m good,” she replies with a grateful smile. 

He brings her a slice of warm cherry pie anyway. The cream melts on the plate before he can get it to her but both her eyes and her voice are soft when she says,

“Thanks Juggie.”

He lingers at the edge of the booth for longer than he should, but somehow finds it within himself to head back to the kitchen. 

( _ Juggie _ echoes in his head longer after they close)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your comments and kudos last chapter :) You guys are amazing x

After a week of pretty dismal rain, the sun finally wins out and stretches its rays over the city again. It’s as though the grey weather had been the last remnants of a lingering spring, and now the air is thick and heavy as Betty makes the journey from York Street station to the diner. 

Despite the fact that it’s still early morning, a group of men are hanging out in the grounds of the project housing she’s walking past, one of whom whistles at her. 

“Ay mami!”

Betty keeps her head down but feels her face flush as she continues walking - a little more speed in her step. The man says something else she doesn’t quite catch, but she thinks she hears the word  _ pussy _ because a laugh rises from the rest of the group and she doesn’t dare look up. Perhaps the shorts were a bad idea, she thinks, and then considers, once again, bringing a change of clothing to work and switching once she gets there. 

She’s surprised to find Sweet Pea already at the diner when she arrives, and she checks her watch a little panicked that she’s late. Of course, she isn’t, and when Jughead opens the door with a soft smile, she’s relieved.

“Hey,” he greets her, closing the door behind them. His brows crease into a frown. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she replies. “Morning Sweet Pea.”

“Cooper,” he nods, pouring water into the coffee machine. 

“You sure?” Jughead checks. “You look a little…” he trails off. “Uh sorry. I didn’t mean…. I mean you look good, but....”

Betty thinks she might hear a chuckle slip from Sweet Pea’s lips but he says nothing and she feels her face flame to the tips of her ears. 

“Some guy at the corner of one of the housing authority buildings catcalled me and I guess I’m just a little flustered,” she replies, waving it away. “I guess I walked here a little faster than usual. Anyway, what can I do?”

Her boss’ eyes appear to harden. “What did he say?”

Sweet Pea turns around and Betty has the distinct impression she probably should’ve said nothing. “I don’t know - I didn’t really hear. It was nothing Jug, I should -”

“- Were they disrespectful?” he asks. 

“You need to be careful,” Sweet Pea adds before she can answer. “Those buildings have stupidly high numbers of dangerous criminals living in them Betty.”

“I’m fine, okay? It was nothing - I just got embarrassed. I should fill the sugar pots.”

They’re not empty but it gives her the opportunity to leave the conversation which is, she considers as she flounces off to the back room, coming from a sweet place: they care, and so they’re concerned, but it’s not warranted. She can handle a few inappropriate comments damn it. 

Besides, it’s also somewhat hypocritical. Sweet Pea has, himself, just left jail (she still doesn’t know what for) and she guesses that if Jughead was in a gang in the past, he’s more than likely made some choices that flirt with the wrong side of the law too. 

They each busy themselves with their respective tasks and by the time Betty heads back into the kitchen where Jughead is whipping cream, everyone has moved on. Sweet Pea flips the ‘closed’ sign over at seven fifty-nine and their first customers arrive only ten minutes later. The diner doesn’t fill to capacity, but it does have enough customers that when Betty takes an order for two plain pancakes with sides of crispy bacon and scrambled eggs into the kitchen, Jughead is looking pained. 

“You okay?” she asks. “Can I help with anything?”

“And leave Sweet Pea on his own out there?”

She giggles despite herself, thinking of the time last week when she’d taken a break to eat her sandwich (tuna - and Jughead’s getting better at making them for her) during which point their colleague had messed up two orders so badly that they’d ended up with six spare pancakes and a side of home fries nobody had ordered. At the time, he’d been pissed but now she notes, silently, that he smiles at the memory too. “Fair enough. Let me know if I can do anything.”

“Just let the customers know there’ll be a wait,” he replies. His eyes drift down to her legs and she suddenly feels very warm.

“O-okay,” she stammers, and then turns to leave.   

  
  
  
  
  


Midway through the morning, after the initial rush has died down and there are only a handful of customers without food on their tables, the bell chimes and Betty looks up at the sound of heels clacking on the tiled floor. It’s Veronica, dressed immaculately despite the oppressive heat, in black. Black skirt, black sleeveless shirt, black sunglasses. 

Betty thinks she sees Sweet Pea’s jaw twitch as he glances up from behind the counter. 

“V? What are you doing here?” she asks, offering a hug. 

“Spending time with my bestie. I decided that if you insist upon working these  _ ungodly _ hours, then I should bring my presence to you.”

“I’m working,” Betty emphasises, though there aren’t too many customers currently. She’d figured Jughead would need help in the kitchen though once they’re quiet enough that Sweet Pea can hold the front of the diner on his own. 

“I know,” Veronica shrugs. “Don’t let me stop you.”

She takes a seat which is technically in Sweet Pea’s section, and Betty goes to fetch the coffee pot. “I’ve got it,” her colleague says, already securing his fingers around the handle. Preceding Jughead’s voice, the bell sounds in the kitchen and so off she heads to collect the food. 

“Would you like to see a menu?” she hears Sweet Pea ask Veronica, then cringes when she says no. Quickly, she delivers an order of blueberry pancakes and a ham omelette to her table and then heads back in the direction of her best friend, who’s busy ordering an egg-white omelette and a side of hash browns.

Betty can see Sweet Pea’s frown. “No can do princess. Hash browns aren’t on the menu.”

Veronica looks at him like he’s spoken in a foreign language she doesn’t understand. The diner’s door bell chimes and more customers enter; she’s forced to attend to them rather than hear what her colleague says when Veronica questions what kind of an establishment this is.  

By the time she reaches the kitchen with her latest order, Sweet Pea has placed one up on the hanger which calls for an egg-white omelette (followed by a series of question and exclamation marks)

“The yolk is the best part of the egg Betty,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Why doesn’t she want it?”

“She’s on a diet where she’s limiting her cholesterol intake,” she replies.

“Why? I mean, her body is insa….” he trails off, realising his audience. Betty bites the insides of her cheeks and only just manages to stifle her smile. 

“There’s no reasoning when it comes to Veronica,” she says. “I love her, but you might want to remember that.”

  
  
  
  


At the end of her shift, Jughead hands Betty her paycheck. There’s more money than she expects there to be, and her expression must be giving away her confusion because he asks,

“Is there something wrong?”

“I uh...I think you’ve overpaid me.”

“Thirty five hours,” he says, and then looks at her check. “That’s right.”

“But I didn’t work thirty five hours,” she replies. “I worked thirty two.”

“You worked thirty two in the diner and then another three helping with the chili and the cleaning afterwards.”

“Jughead, that wasn’t work. I told you I’d help you,” she tells him gently. 

“You did help. And you deserve to be paid for it.”

A knot twists uncomfortably in her stomach. She’d helped because she wanted to. Not because -

“- You were kind to offer Betts,” he says, more softly this time. “But you didn’t have to. And besides, you’re in school. Classes aren’t cheap.”

She nods but would rather he hadn’t given her the extra fifty dollars.

“So,” he starts, changing the subject. “You have any plans this evening?”

“If you can count Netflix and sharing a bottle of wine with Veronica as plans, then sure,” Betty replies. “Have you?”

There’s a little smile twitching at his lips but it never fully emerges. She finds herself often wondering why he does that - halts it in its tracks sometimes for no apparent reason. 

“Other than showing up to this place, I don’t think I’ve had any plans for the last four months.”

She suspects it’s meant to be a joke but it falls very obviously flat. It’s sad that this single building with its unflattering lighting and poor insulation is, effectively, his current limit. She’d like to ask what he did before: what life was like in that stretch of time between his presence in the gang and where he is now, but it would be unfair. 

“You’re welcome to join us if trashy rom coms and wine I can’t pronounce are your thing,” Betty finds herself saying. She’s not prepared for the bloom of hope that comes from awaiting his response, nor the disappointment when Jughead thanks her for the kind offer, but tells her he’s actually looking forward to a shower and an obscene amount of takeout.   

“Can I walk you to the subway?” he asks. 

She waves him away. “Don’t be silly - I’ll be fine.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “But I’d still like to walk you anyway.”

His words steal her breath for a moment and as much as she wants to decline on the grounds that she’s a big girl and can handle herself, she also wouldn’t mind spending an extra twenty minutes alone with him in the early evening air. 

“Isn’t it the wrong direction for you?”

Jughead shrugs. “I’ll take the subway.”

“Okay then,” she decides after a beat. “That’d be nice.”

They take a right along the street and he asks her questions all about Riverdale and high school and her parents. She tells him most of it: it’s a tiny town where everybody knows each other; explains that that wasn’t necessarily a good thing; Kevin Keller was her best friend; she ran a school newspaper; it took her an embarrassing number of try-outs but finally, in her junior year, she earned a spot on the River Vixens. She leaves out the part about Polly and Jason and the shooting that claimed the life of her niece and nephew’s father. 

In return, Jughead gives her the odd insight into his own upbringing: born and raised in Brooklyn - not too far from the diner, but far enough that the people he grew up around aren’t in close enough proximity for him to bump into at the local bodega - a dad who sometimes tried his best (and sometimes didn’t) a younger sister, Jellybean, who left when his mother did. There’s an edge to his tone as he says it that makes Betty think there must be more to the story (the same type of  _ more _ that she’s keeping back maybe; the type of  _ more _ that explains why things are as they are) 

She doesn’t ask. 

They reach York Street station much more quickly than she’d anticipated, and she finds herself telling Jughead that, more than likely, she and Veronica will be ordering in from Alessi’s so if it’s the best pizza in New York he’s after, he’s welcome to come over. 

“Best pizza in the whole of New York huh?” he muses. “That’s quite the claim.”

“You say that as if you don’t believe me,” Betty retorts, eyebrow raised in challenge. 

“I’d believe you if I knew you’d had a slice of pepperoni from Figaro’s.”

“Can’t say I have,” she replies, realising then that he hasn’t acknowledged her offer again. “So what do you say? Prove me wrong?”

His lips curve into something of a sad smile. “I’d love to but these clothes are gross and I need to shower. Besides, once I sit down, I’m not sure I’ll get up again and I have to open the diner in the morning.”

Betty fights the image forming in her mind of them sharing the couch. She loses, and the image turns to snapshots: falling asleep with her head on his shoulder; him asking if he can crash on the couch; bringing him spare blankets; whispering goodnight.

A lingering kiss on the cheek.

Her whole body feels flushed. (She knows, of course, that none of that can happen) 

“But who knows,” he starts. “Maybe one night after work we can order from both places and decide who to crown the best pizza place in the city.”

It feels, unfortunately, like a compromise. “Sounds like a plan,” she answers as casually as she can. 

Betty waits as Jughead buys a ticket and then they both head to their respective trains. “Have a good night Betts,” he says.

Curving her lips upwards, she offers her hand in a semi-wave goodbye. “You too.”

  
  
  
  
  


Veronica has already ordered by the time Betty arrives back at their apartment. She’s watching Spring Breakers which they’ve both seen at least twice already, and instructs Betty to take a shower before she opens the chardonnay. 

As the water rains over her body, she thinks of Jughead yet again. He’s been creeping into her thoughts often lately: when she’s writing her assignment; when she’s making dinner; on the weekend days she hasn’t been at work and can afford to spend time making an elaborate brunch for herself and Veronica. She’s begun to accept the fact that she finds him attractive and that heading into the kitchen to put up or collect an order (or, better, to help him with something he’s eager to learn how to make) fills her with a shot of excitement. 

But, she tells herself silently, he’s still her boss. He might’ve walked her to the subway station but that’s almost definitely only because of her reaction to being catcalled on the way to work - not because he wanted to spend the extra time with her. She’s his employee; he probably feels it’s his duty to watch out for her safety. 

Twice today he hadn’t taken her up on the offer to spend his evening at the other side of the river.

_ Nothing’s going to happen _ , she tells herself. Nothing  _ should _ happen, she adds.

The pizza arrives as Veronica is pouring the wine and Betty is pulling her damp hair into a bun. She pays and tips the delivery boy, and they both collapse onto the couch. It’s only then that she realises how exhausted she is. 

“I hardly see you,” Veronica whines, taking a decidedly large gulp from her glass. It’s true: between classes and the diner, Betty doesn’t spend much time in the apartment. 

“I know,” she replies. “I’m sorry - I guess I’m really busy.” She tucks her feet beneath her. “What’s going on with you?”

“Well,” Veronica begins, her eyes crinkling with a smile as she takes another mouthful of wine. “Things with Nick are…” The fact that she trails off makes Betty smile: she really hopes that this time around, things for her friend are different. That Veronica gets the relationship she wants. 

“I’m happy for you V.”

“What about you?” she asks. “Anybody around campus catch your eye? Anyone in that  _ ghastly _ diner?”

“Veronica,” Betty chides, although her friend widens her eyes unapologetically in response and it ends up just making her laugh.   

“No, there’s nobody.”

A grin breaks out across Veronica’s face.

“What?”

“Well, Nick has a friend and he wants to meet you.”

“Oh, I don’t know V, that’s not really -”

“- Just give it a chance! His name is Wilder and he’s at law school and….”

Betty doesn’t really hear the rest. She doesn’t want to date someone named Wilder who goes to law school. She’s not even sure she really wants to date  _ at all _ given how busy she is. Where exactly is she supposed to make time for something else in her life that isn’t work or school? 

“So?” Veronica asks. “What do you say?”

“I’m sorry,” she shakes her head. “I’m just really busy with… everything.”

“Fine,” Veronica sighs. “I’ll let him down gently.”

Betty nods and takes in a mouthful of wine. After she swallows, she’s suddenly hit with another bout of fatigue and decides that it’s another good reason Jughead turned down her offer of pizza. 

They watch the movie without saying much more and when Betty sees Nick’s name appear on the screen of her friend’s phone, she proclaims it’s time for her to go to bed. 

  
  
  
  
  


Three days later, Betty has an afternoon shift at the diner. She has a couple of classes in the morning, then grabs a falafel from a cart on the way to the station. The diner is pretty quiet when she arrives a little after two-thirty, and her presence means that Sweet Pea can take his lunch break. 

“Have you eaten?” Jughead questions when she hangs up an order for two burgers. “I can make you something?”

“I had a falafel,” she tells him. “But thank you.”

He nods and she heads out of the kitchen wishing she was still hungry. 

The flow of customers is steady and by the time five o’clock hits, Betty’s managed to do a little cleaning of the kitchen’s larder refrigerator. Rather than helping, Jughead has spent the time watching her with an amused expression.

“Do you  _ like _ cleaning?” he asks when she returns to the bottom shelf to finish the chore.   

“I guess.”

“Huh.”

“It can be kind of therapeutic,” she elaborates, “That’s all.” 

He nods and leaves her to it but by the time she’s finished, he’s setting a basket of onion rings on the counter. “Cleaning makes me hungry,” he says by way of explanation when she asks what they’re for. 

He’s close. Close enough that the arm he’s just used to place the basket beside her brushes hers. His skin is tan and Betty notices again how long his fingers are.

“You’re sweet,” she tells him, feeling a blush creep high up her cheeks. “Thank you.”

His palm lands on the base of her spine and she feels her heartbeat speed up. Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe properly. She turns in towards him and his hand remains exactly where it is, warm and heavy and  _ safe _ over the cotton fabric of her t-shirt.

“Jug,” she starts, her voice a whisper. His eyes are on hers but she watches their gaze descend towards her lips. His tongue darts out to wet his own and just as she takes a step closer, the swing door bursts open and Sweet Pea marches in.

“Oh,” he mutters as she and Jughead spring apart. “Uh, your friends are here to see you Betty.”

“Friends?” she questions blindly. Her lips feel bee-stung despite the fact that they didn’t even touch Jughead’s. (She wonders just how they might feel if they  _ did _ )

“Veronica,” he elaborates. “And... some others.”

She wonders briefly about the  _ others _ , and as she reaches the door, a sinking feeling twists her stomach. She spots her roommate first, sitting beside Nick St Clair. There’s another guy in the booth facing them and Betty hopes to God this isn’t Wilder. Veronica catches her eye, excitedly squeals,

“B!” and the guys turn to look in her direction.

“Hey,” she says with a forced smile as she reaches the table. She narrows her eyes slightly at her friend (as best she can without attracting attention or being rude) but Veronica plays coy.

“This is Wilder Carmichael. He studies with Nick.”

“I also party with him,” he adds with a wink, and Betty nods with yet another forced smile. This one is even tighter than the last and she wills an influx of customers through the door. 

The customers don’t come.

After some pretty awkward small talk about how her shift’s been, she takes an order for three coffees after both Nick and Wilder express their disappointment at the diner not serving beer. Sweet Pea emerges from the kitchen chewing what she suspects is an onion ring from the basket Jughead had made her moments ago, and eyes the booth with a hardened gaze. 

“That her boyfriend?” he asks of Nick, who now has an arm draped over the back of the booth. 

“Uh…” she reaches for the coffee pot. “I guess.”

Betty doesn’t miss the calculating smirk. “He hasn’t claimed her yet.”

She scoffs. She doubts Veronica Lodge can be  _ claimed _ by anybody. 

Coffee pot in hand, she heads back to the table to pour the liquid into white mugs. “Can I get you anything else?” she asks. “A basket of fries? Onion rings?”

They eventually settle on two baskets of plain fries - a waste, Betty thinks, though doesn’t voice this aloud - and she promptly makes her way to the kitchen for some respite from the awkwardness.

“Who’s Donald Trump junior?” Sweet Pea asks as he joins her just under the hanger. She’s a little ashamed of herself, but the comment makes her chuckle. Sighing softly, she rests against the counter. “Just somebody Veronica thought I might want to date.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Jughead looking at her from where he’s pouring out frozen fries into the basket to be cooked. He glances away quickly when their gazes meet, head dipped so that she can’t see much more than his grey crown beanie and the reddening of his neck. 

“Good,” Sweet Pea decides aloud. “He seems like a douche.”

  
  
  
  
  


Later, Jughead saves Betty from having to engage in conversation about how ivy-league schools pretty much ensure the future of their students by asking her if she could give him a hand in the kitchen. It turns out, when she gets there, he doesn’t actually need her to do anything.

“You looked uncomfortable,” he says. “And uh…” he rubs at the back of his neck and she wonders if it’s something both he and Sweet Pea learned in their childhood, or whether, by chance, they developed the habit separately from each other. “I just wanted to say -”

“-Jug,” Sweet Pea bursts in, expression not panicked per se, but definitely on edge. “Crow’s  _ out _ .”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to address something before the start of this chapter. There is only limited SweetVee in this story. This chapter in particular doesn't include much of that pairing, but as the story progresses, we will see them significantly more.
> 
> Sorry to disappoint anybody who's reading solely for these two.

Jughead wants to walk Betty to the subway station. Unlike the last time where he  _ did _ actually ensure she got there safely, he’s unable to indulge himself: Veronica (with the addition of the man he already knows Sweet Pea is going to end up punching, and his friend - Betty’s supposed date) insists that she go with them and really, who is he to stop her?

He wants to though.

“You’re more whipped than that cream you serve with the pancakes,” Sweet Pea laughs after she’s left. 

He says nothing, just carries on wiping the final table. Usually, when Betty’s here to help, he can watch her ponytail bounce as she bends over the formica. His view this time is far inferior.

Maybe he _ is _ whipped.

“Did you tell Toni about Crow?” he asks instead.

“Yeah.”

“Fangs?”

“Yeah.” After a beat, Sweet Pea adds, “You should let Tall Boy know.”

“You really think he’d come after you? After all of these years?”

“If you were still in the serpents, and the ghoulies started a fire in  _ your  _ bar, wouldn’t  _ you _ ?”

Yeah, he thinks. He would.

“Okay, then,” Jughead decides. “If he comes here, it’s you he’ll be looking for.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, don’t spend any longer than necessary out front. As long as Betty, Trev or Ethel can cope, you can help out in the kitchen.”

“Do we tell them?” Sweet Pea asks.

Jughead thinks of Betty and her wide green eyes; her innocence - flustered even by a catcall; her willingness to help and fuck, she can’t help with  _ this _ . “No.”

“If they ask why I’m in the back?”

“You’re training,” he replies. 

“For what?”

“To cook.”

A burst of air leaves his lips in a failed attempt at a laugh. Jughead doesn’t match it. “Look, I’m sorry Jug,” he starts. “When FP told me there was a job here if I needed it, I wouldn’t have… if I’d known they were gonna release him early…”

“I know.”

“You think Crow’s still part of the ghoulies?”

“Probably.” It’d be precisely his kind of bad luck if he was. “We might not even hear from him again.” (Best-case and most unlikely scenario) “But regardless, we make sure everyone stays safe. Toni and Fangs; the customers; the staff.”  _ Betty _ , he thinks specifically.

“You have a piece in here?” Sweet Pea asks.

Jughead nods. “Storeroom - behind the shit we never cook.”

“Always wondered why we had so many boxes of crackers.” It’s an attempt at a joke, judging by the way one side of his lip curves upward. Again, Jughead doesn’t laugh: the diner was supposed to be his dad’s escape. In the end, it seems to be yet another chain to their past. 

They lock up to head home without incident, but Jughead does find himself being more vigilant than he might usually be - he’s not entirely convinced Crow would be dressed so obviously in the black jacket with the white adornments he grew so accustomed to seeing back in high school, but he’d rather not take the chance. 

At his apartment, Jughead scans each room quickly before taking off his own jacket and beanie, then slides the chain across the lock once he’s satisfied that the only one there is him.

He showers and thinks of Betty, and microwaves a lasagna and thinks of Betty, and tries to watch Brooklyn Nine-Nine and thinks of Betty. He wonders whether he should call her; tell her not to come in for her shift in three days’ time. And if he’s going to keep her safe that way, he should do the same for Ethel and Trev too.

_ You’re over-reacting _ , he tells himself, despite a tightening twist in his gut. The fire was five years ago. The insurance - as far as he knows - paid out. Tall Boy ended up in the emergency room; Sweet Pea in jail.

And yet, Jughead thinks of an eye for an eye. If Crow’s coming, he’s coming big. 

  
  
  
  


Nothing happens. He doesn’t call Betty or Trev or Ethel and when both Betty and Trev show up for work, Jughead feels somewhat more settled. There has also been the slight positive that Sweet Pea has turned out not to be completely terrible when it comes to cooking - so much so that the chili he’d made when they ran out is almost as good as the one Betty had shown him how to cook. 

_ Almost. _ But not quite.      

She’s dressed today, not in a pair of shorts, but in jeans when she arrives - despite the weather forecast stating that today’s heat will be nothing short of formidable. Her hair is pulled back into the signature ponytail of hers and it bounces as she steps up into the area behind the counter.

“Good morning,” she chirps like she always does, eyes bright and lips curved into an easy smile. 

“Morning Betts,” he replies somewhat hoarsely - he’s been pretty tired lately - and her grin stretches. “There’s coffee for you.”

He has it ready and waiting in the old  _ Bookworm _ mug Toni had gifted him during their freshman year of high school. He wonders why his dad had kept it all this time - and also, how it made its way to the diner. He wonders too, why Betty has taken such a liking to it, but he’s not about to ask her. 

“You’re so sweet Juggie,” she says, cradling the mug in her hands. “Just what I need.”

“Tired?” he asks. He wants to massage the knots out of her shoulders. (He wants to be the pillow for her head too, but that’s just downright unrealistic)

“Late night.”

“Oh yeah?”

“ _ Studying _ ,” she returns pointedly, but her chin is angled downwards and she’s looking at him from under pretty eyelashes. “And drinking herbal tea in a bid not to ruin my body with caffeine.”

There’s a chuckle flirting with the edge of her words and  _ Jesus freaking Christ _ , he didn’t need any more of a reason to think about her body. Maybe it’s for the best that there are no shorts today. 

Jughead is horrified to hear himself say, “You don’t need to worry.” It’s as though his mouth has operated in complete isolation from his brain. And all common sense. A blush spreads over her cheeks and she opens her mouth to speak. 

“I didn’t mean -” At the same time, there’s a knock on the door signalling Trev’s arrival and he quickly heads over to let his other employee inside. He doesn’t realise his heart is thudding in his throat until Trev asks,

“You okay boss?”

“I’m fine,” he replies quickly.

There is no coffee waiting for Trev. Jughead feels a little bad about it - but he’s been working there long enough that he usually just helps himself anyway. Betty, despite being assured several times that this is okay, does not. 

“Hey Betty,” he says, skirting around her on his way to the coffee machine. 

“Good morning,” she replies sweetly, then takes a sip of her drink. Her eyes lock with Jughead’s as she swallows, and she smiles wide enough to show off that she must make some dentist somewhere very happy. “Just right,” she says for only him to hear, and he nods, his lips twitching into something near a smile before she heads into the back.

In under two minutes, Betty returns - now wearing shorts. He’s not about to say anything given the last time she wore them in this neighbourhood, her face was a telltale pink, but Trev frowns as he sips at his freshly-poured coffee.

“Weren’t you wearing jeans?”

“I get hot,” is all she says in reply, then scuttles off to ensure the sugar pots and syrup are ready. The tips of her ears are pink.

Again, Jughead says nothing.

  
  
  
  
  


“You ready for your break?” He asks her later, once the mild lunch rush of burger and hot dog and chili fries orders fades away. 

“Yes,” Betty tells him with a peel of laughter. “I’m starving.”

He makes her usual tuna sandwich and then throws a portion of onion rings into the fryer too. She didn’t have chance to eat them last time she was here and he knows that when she gets back to Manhattan, she’ll no doubt have several hours of studying to do. He figures he should throw in an additional handful for Trev on the grounds of treating his employees equally, and, when he takes them to her as she’s polishing the stainless steel of the coffee machine (yet another chore he’s never thought to do) he’s rewarded with a hug.

“You didn’t have to,” she tells him, arms wrapped around his waist and hair smelling all kinds of wonderful beneath his nose. “But thank you.”

Soft. She’s so  _ soft _ .

Her arms drop to her sides and he steps back reluctantly, trying to force his brain to function again. His chest is warm beneath his white t-shirt from where her breasts had pressed against him and all he can think is  _ come back, come back. _

Betty takes a seat in the booth at the far end of the diner and, although it’s difficult, Jughead heads back to the kitchen. There’s Trev’s turkey-mayo sandwich to make and the dishwasher to load after all. 

He hears Betty’s laughter later in the day, hearty and honest and he wishes he could see her face; wishes he knew what had made her so happy that she made that sound. And then he hears Trev’s laughter, and he’s not at all prepared for the stab of jealousy in his chest. It makes the muscle in his jaw tick involuntarily and he hits the bell to announce the food is ready a little harder than usual.

“Order up!”

She bounces in, ponytail swinging and her green eyes happy and he feels himself relax a little. 

“You okay?” she frowns.

“I’m fine.” He doesn’t mean for the words to leave his mouth so abruptly and so, by way of apology, he adds, “Just tired.”

Before picking up the plates, she rubs his forearm with her fingertips. “You never have a proper break. Can I look after things in here for ten minutes?”

Jughead wants to take her up on the offer - really, he does - but…

“I promise I’ll  _ try _ not to burn anything,” she adds. 

Her hopeful expression seals the deal and he finds his fingers reach to gently squeeze the top of her arm, just below her shoulder. Her skin is warm, but, he notes, there are goosebumps rising. Her voice is low when she says,

“I’ll just deliver these plates. Two minutes.”

She returns in less than and crosses her arms. “Your break has begun!”

It makes him chuckle; her smile widens and all he can think is  _ you’re beautiful. _

  
  
  
  
  


“So, uh...Betty,” he hears Trev say later as they’re clearing away the final few plates and empty baskets. There are still a handful of customers shared out between two tables nursing coffee and pie at opposite ends of the diner. Betty is cleaning up the mustard and ketchup bottles; Trev has a dish towel in his hand but doesn’t actually appear to be doing anything other than shuffling his weight from one foot to the other. Jughead knows where this is going.

“Maybe we could check out that little tapas place next weekend?”

Of course. First Wilder, now Trev in the space of a few days. He knows he shouldn’t be surprised by the fact that there are several men wanting to date Betty (and he’s _ not _ surprised,  _ not at all _ ) but witnessing it isn’t pleasant. In fact, it makes his throat burn and his nostrils flare.

The “that sounds great,” he expects to hear leave her mouth doesn’t come. Instead, she glances up in his direction, those light emerald pools of hers softening as she meets his gaze, and swallows visibly. Jughead has the awful suspicion that he may have just done the same. 

She drops her eyes down to the table with the family of condiments and then, very softly, she says, “That sounds nice Trev, but I’m not really looking for anything right now.”

“Oh, okay,” he replies. “No worries.”

Jughead quickly turns his attention to wiping the table very fastidiously and his two employees carry on with their tasks too. He’s overwhelmed by the feeling of relief, and then thinks, abruptly, she’s not looking for _ anything _ right now. 

Anything.

It’s a pretty all-encompassing word. 

Their last two tables leave a few minutes apart and Jughead makes sure to turn the lock after their departure. It doesn’t take long for the three of them to be ready to leave for the evening: he’s done as much prep as possible for the morning and Betty has another shift in the afternoon so Sweet Pea will be able to work in the kitchen too. Trev mops the floor and Betty quickly changes out of her shorts and back into the jeans she’d arrived in earlier. Jughead is simultaneously sad and grateful that the catcall earlier in the week has made her rethink her walking-to-and-from-the-station attire. It might be more easy to concentrate on not saying or doing anything stupid when he’s not being made explicitly aware of how long and lean her legs are. 

“Let me walk you to the station?” he asks her quietly, once he’s locked the door and Trev has already headed off in the opposite direction. 

She seems to think for a moment but then - again, rather quietly - says “Okay.”

Okay, not  _ that would be great _ , but still.  _ Still _ .

They take a right and head along the street, past the public housing authority buildings where - he notes to himself - she walks a little closer to him. Close enough, in fact, that Betty’s hand brushes his. His fingers flex of their own accord, twitching inward and then back again so that his palm is angled a little more towards hers. She doesn’t curl her fingers around his (but she doesn’t make any effort to step further apart either).

Close to the station, they pass a gourmet ice cream truck. Jughead sees Betty’s gaze drift over the pictures of the flavours on sale, her pace slowing slightly as she does so.

“You want one?” he asks.

“Oh no, I shouldn’t.”

He stops walking. “You  _ shouldn’t _ ?”

“I have studying to do when I get home and as much as I love ice cream, the last thing I need is a sugar crash,” she replies. Her eyes are still taking in the flavours though, so he senses she might not be  _ fully _ -committed to avoiding sweet treats. “Unless…. Do you want one?”

He bites the insides of his cheeks so as not to smile. “I’m not going to eat alone.” It is, quite possibly, one of the most untrue statements he could’ve uttered. 

“Do you really want an ice cream Juggie?” she asks. “Or are you just saying it because you think I want one?”

He  _ wants _ an ice cream. He  _ wants _ her to call him Juggie again. He  _ knows _ she wants one too. “I want an ice cream Betts,” Jughead says. “And I want you to have one too.”

She orders a single scoop of birthday cake in a tub and as far as the initial flavour choice goes, it’s a solid one. Sweet cream ice cream swirled with vanilla frosting and sprinkles. But where are her extras?

“It’s  _ artisanal  _ Betty,” he stresses, like the word means something other than overpriced Hipster bullshit. “You can’t just stop there.”

Arms crossed, she cocks her head to the side. The late evening sun catches her just right and she’s golden. For some reason, it makes him suck in a breath. “And what would you suggest, Mr Ben and Jerry’s?”

He feigns outrage. “I’ll have you know I’m team Baskin and Robbins actually.”

“Duly noted.”

“And for starters, I’d have a scoop of marshmallow fluff.”

“And  _ then _ ?” 

“Extra sprinkles, obviously.”

“Because there aren’t enough all ready?” Her eyes are light and teasing and there are crinkle lines at the corners of her lips where they’re curved into a smile. He wants so badly to kiss her. 

“Am I adding this on?” the apron-wearing man in the truck asks. Jughead looks at Betty, who shrugs back in his direction.

“Yes,” he replies without even turning away from her. “And if you have a cherry for the top, we’ll take one of those too.”

The server completes Betty’s ice cream for her and sets it on the shelf. “Anything else?”

“Two scoops of double chocolate fudge in a tub,” he begins. “Hot fudge sauce, chopped pecans, mini marshmallows.”

He can sense Betty’s raised eyebrow but ploughs on, undeterred. “Whip cream and chocolate jimmies. And uh...I guess I’ll have a cherry too.”

The server eventually hands him the overflowing tub and announces the exorbitant total of $18.54.

“Here,” Betty starts, attempting to hand over a twenty dollar bill. He catches her wrist gently but firmly, and hands over his own twenty.

“I’ve got it Betts.”

“Jug…” she starts in protest, but he shakes his head.

“My treat.”

They eat their respective ice creams sitting on a wall a few yards away, content to focus on the passing traffic and pedestrians. 

“How does it taste?” she asks. 

Jughead holds out the tub. “Try some.”

Her eyes flick over his face - like she’s checking he really means it (and of course he does) and then she digs her tiny wooden spoon into the mess his tub is fast becoming. He watches as she pops the spoon into her mouth, closing her eyes and making this noise that’s - fuck, it’s a  _ moan _ . 

“Good?” he somehow manages.

“ _ So _ good. Here!” she holds out her own tub. “Try mine.”

He does, tainting the pure white of her marshmallow fluff with dark brown. It’s a good combination and he tells her as such before a comfortable quiet falls back between them. Of course, the city around them isn’t silent - there are sirens screaming somewhere in the distance and horns blaring and music pumping from the open window of a stationary cab. In a strange sort of way though, it’s peaceful. 

“I just wanted to say,” Betty starts, fiddling with the hem of her t-shirt. “Earlier, when Trev asked if I wanted to go to the tapas place…” She stops and he wonders whether he’s supposed to say something.

“It really isn’t any of my business if you two want to-”

“-I don’t,” she cuts in. “I  _ don’t _ want to. Not with him. He’s sweet, but I don’t...not with him.”

Jughead wonders whether she’s emphasising the  _ with him _ part. “Oh,” he swallows. “That’s… oh.”

She says nothing more and so he focuses on the remainder of the ice cream in his tub. 

They continue to York Street without much in the way of conversation. There is so much Jughead wants to ask but in the end, he says none of it, instead, wrapping her in an awkward parting hug that she doesn’t seem to be expecting. So does though, relax into it and her arms wrap around the bottom of his back. She’s snug and soft against him and he doesn’t want to let go.

Later, once he  _ has _ forced himself to step away, he thinks about the fact that Betty has declined dates with both the law school guy (he’s already forgotten his name) and Trev (who is, almost undoubtedly, a better catch than Jughead) And then he thinks of her digging her spoon into his ice cream and forcing him to take a break from the kitchen and staying behind to show him how to make chili; her softening gaze and her genuine smile and her fingertips on his arm.  

Maybe, he decides,  _ just maybe _ , she might like him too.

  
  
  
  
  


The following day begins as all days do: with an early alarm that makes Jughead wish he didn’t have to get up and face the fact that every day for the foreseeable future, he’ll be unlocking the door of the diner and cooking greasy junk food. 

His day  _ does _ get better though. A little after two in the afternoon, the doorbell chimes and Betty enters, wearing a dress that lets him know that the sun has brought out a smattering of freckles on her shoulders. She has in her hand a large bag that he assumes to house her shorts and the pair of white keds she seems to favour working in. She changes in the little bathroom and emerges in said shorts (khaki cotton, from what he can tell) and a black t-shirt which is knotted at her hip. When she stretches to read the three orders on the hanger, the knot rides up and exposes a strip of pale skin. Sweet Pea catches him staring and winks with a grin. Jughead chooses not to respond and she breezes back out to relieve Ethel from her shift. 

The afternoon progresses as he would’ve expected: a series of customers ordering food that’ll clog their arteries; Betty asking if there’s anything he needs her to do (and miraculously finding something when he says no) sweat gathering on his brow; an ache lingering in his fingers where he wants to touch her skin. 

And then comes the evening. Their last customers leave a little after seven. Betty is at the far end of the diner, seated in the booth she prefers to polish the cutlery at; Sweet Pea is wiping down the other tables and Jughead is on his way to lock the door when, without warning, it slams open and Crow, flanked by two other members of the ghoulies, stalks inside. 

There is a gun in his hand and he raises it, pointing towards Sweet Pea. Betty is directly in the line of fire - if Sweet Pea ducks, she’ll get hit. If she moves, she’ll get hit. If Jughead doesn’t get there first, she’ll get hit.

He manages to process all of this in mere seconds and, as Crow’s finger inches the tigger backwards like they’re in slow motion, he runs.

_ Betty Betty Betty Betty Be- _

A shot and a scream, simultaneously. 

Sirens. They’re close - too close and too fast to be destined for the diner. Glass on the floor. Warmth. A thudding in his head - adrenaline maybe, or a result of the noise. So much all at once but muffled somehow.

_ Betty, _ he thinks.  _ Betty Betty Betty Betty.  _

The chime of the bell. They’re gone. Are his legs working? He can’t see Betty but he can see Sweet Pea crouched over.

“Is she hurt?” he gasps. “Are you hurt?”

Finally, she comes into view, eyes widening as she looks at him, and then her face crumples. Sweet Pea turns, still half-knelt on the floor.

“Shit Jug! You’re bleeding!” 

Suddenly he’s behind the counter with his back propped up by the stainless steel, legs stretched out across the tiles. Betty is on her knees between them, inspecting with her hands and her eyes but there’s a problem: he’s trying to make sure she’s not marked anywhere; trying to inspect her skin for any sign of injury but she keeps dodging his hands and his focus is too blurry for him to rely solely on his vision. 

“Hold still,” she pleads. “Let me see.”

“Betts -”

“I’m fine.  _ Please _ ,” she sniffs and if he’s not mistaken, her lip is quivering. “Please just let me see.”

“It’s my shoulder,” he tells her at the same time that Sweet Pea announces, “The door’s locked.”

“We should call the ambulance. He needs to go to the hospital.”

“No,” they both reply at the same time. “No hospital,” Jughead adds. “I’m fine.”

“Jug, you’re not fine, you’re -”

“-I’m fine,” he grits out, harsher than perhaps necessary but it does the job. “No hospital.”

His shirt is stuck to his shoulder. “I need some scissors,” Betty says shakily, using her forearm to wipe at her eyes. More tears spill over and he uses his thumb to catch them, brushing carefully across the soft skin of her cheek. Briefly, she closes her eyes, turning her face into his palm. Her left hand is rubbing up and down his thigh and if he wasn’t in this much pain, he might be finding it more difficult to stay in control. 

Sweet Pea returns from the kitchen with a pair of scissors and Betty takes them wordlessly, cutting upwards from the hem of his t-shirt. She’s able to peel away the material from his left shoulder easily, but his right is soaked in blood and she’s gentle in the way she eases it away from his skin. 

Jughead hears her suck in a deep breath and he reminds her, “You don’t have to -”

But then her fingers begin examining his wound and any fight he has left leaves him. 

  
  
  
  
  


The bullet has grazed his shoulder. It’s not terrible, especially now he’s patched up (he’s had worse, all things considered) but Betty is hovering. Sweet Pea has mopped the floor and Betty has bleached  _ everything _ . Considering the shot didn't kill him, Jughead thinks the ammonia just might. 

He’s wearing the spare t-shirt he keeps in the store room in case of emergencies. He hadn’t banked on said emergencies including being hit by a bullet, but all the same, not having to head home shirtless and obviously newly-shot is a bonus. 

Sweet Pea leaves to make sure Toni is safe. He hasn’t been able to get ahold of her and Jughead sends him away once the diner shows no traces of blood. 

“I’ll call you,” he says, and then heads out. Betty is quick to lock the door behind him.

“You okay?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “You just got shot Jug.” she sniffs, and a series of tears roll down her cheeks. “I don’t think I’m  _ okay _ with that.”

“C’m here,” he gestures, holding out his hand from where he’s now sitting in the booth. She takes it, smoothing her fingers over the rough skin of his knuckles. He knows he shouldn’t indulge in this with her - he needs to get her home and safe - but he can’t just ignore that she’s shaking. That it’s all sinking in. That somehow, she knew how to patch up the wound over his tattoo. 

She presses against his side and leans her head on his good shoulder. “Do you think they’ll come back?”

Jughead exhales and then turns his neck so that he can brush a kiss against her forehead - a reflex to having her nestled so close. “No. They’re not killers Betts - they wanted to make a point.”

LIfting her head, she meets his eyes hesitantly. “Will you tell me why they came here?”

He swallows. “Yes. But not tonight.”

She nods and rests her head back on his shoulder.

“Betty, you need to go home.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Can I come with you?” she asks. “Make sure you’re okay?”

A sigh bursts out of his lips. “No. My neighbourhood isn’t… it’s not a place for you to be.”

“Then stay with me,” Betty replies. 

A tempting offer, but he stresses again, “I’ll be fine.”

Her head leaves his shoulder again and she twists so she can trace his jawline with her fingertips either side of his face. It makes his limbs feel slack and heavy. “Please?” she whispers, right before she leans in to kiss him. 

Her lips move only fractionally, light and gentle before she pulls back, voice still quiet. “I just want you to be safe.”

He gives a single nod of his head. “Okay.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so SO much for your comments and support last chapter. They all mean so much :) 
> 
> My next update could be a little over a week in coming - I'm away all next week and will have extremely limited time to write, so please be patient with me :) x

The Uber drops them off outside of Betty’s building. It’s rather quiet - especially quiet for New York - and there’s a faint smell of garlicky tomato goodness lingering in the air. It’s often present throughout the early evening and usually makes her feel pretty hungry.

This evening however, it does not. 

She can tell Jughead is pretending not to be tired, but his body is moving without its usual effortlessness: his feet are clumsy and his eyelids look heavy and sore.

“There’s no elevator,” she tells him guiltily. “Third floor - can you manage?”

“I’m fine Betts.” It’s a lie - he’s  _ not _ fine. Neither is she. 

They haven’t talked about the kiss. They haven’t kissed again. He hasn’t held her hand and she hasn’t leaned her head against his shoulder, and despite very much wanting to do all of those things, she knows that the priority needs to be a shower, food and sleep. She’s a little wary of the latter, mainly because she doesn’t want a concussion situation (although she figures for that to be likely, he has to have hit his head, and his head is, very much, okay)

“You’re worrying,” he observes. Betty turns towards him as she swipes her key fob on the pad. “You chew your bottom lip,” he elaborates, when she wonders how he knows. At that, she releases it from between her teeth and catching her off guard, he soothes his thumb over the grooves. “I’m okay.  _ Really _ .”

She nods and in a whisper, admits, “I don’t think _ I _ am.”

“C’mon,” he says on a long exhale. “Let’s go inside.”

Veronica, thankfully, is out. Betty hadn’t thought to text ahead and warn her of Jughead’s presence in their apartment, and she’s glad that she’ll get the chance to do so in retrospect. 

It’s more awkward than she’d imagined it would be - having Jughead here in her living room. Despite his declarations otherwise, she strongly suspects that he’s fighting the pain of his shoulder.

“Would you like a shower?” she asks. “I can get you some fresh towels?”

He seems to think for a moment, then says, “Uh yeah… thanks. That’d be… a shower would be good.”

Betty points him in the direction of the bathroom. “You can use any of the products in there. They uh… they might be a little feminine-smelling. Sorry.”

He laughs a little with a shake of his head.

“What?”

“You’re seriously apologising because of the scent of your products?”

She blushes and dips her head. “I like vanilla.”

His voice is low and edged with something she’s a little afraid of when he says, “I like vanilla too.”

While she busies herself in the kitchen, popping two chamomile teabags into mugs and then filling the kettle, she realises a little too late that he might not be able to manage the t-shirt she’d helped him put on back in the diner. She’s heading towards the bathroom in order to knock on the door when it opens unexpectedly. 

“Oh,” she blinks, “Um, I was just coming to see if you needed a hand.” She swallows. “With your shirt.”

“I could use some scissors,” Jughead replies. “Or if you wouldn’t mind -”

“- I don’t mind.”

Betty grabs the pair of scissors she keeps for non-kitchen-related tasks, figuring they’ll be the best option for slicing through the cotton material of his shirt, and then steps into the bathroom. There isn’t much space at the best of times, and Jughead is forced to rest back against the sink as she snips upwards.

“Now I’ve ruined  _ two _ of your shirts today,” she tries to joke, but then she recalls the blood and the way his eyes had been glazed and the incoherent string of noise leaving his lips immediately after the shot had rang out. The words sour on her tongue. 

He doesn’t reply, but catches her wrist with his fingers, wrapping them around so his thumb is resting against the spot where her pulse ticks. He strokes her skin in slow, calming circles, and it’s only then that Betty realises she’d been breathing rather heavily. 

“I know you were the one who got shot,” she sniffs. “But do you think… can you just give me a hug?”

His adam’s apple bobs in his throat and his lips are slightly parted - like he might be about to say something. In the end though, Jughead simply releases her wrist, gently takes the scissors from her hand and places them on the edge of the sink. He steps towards her, so close that she can feel his warmth as his good arm comes to wrap around her first, followed - albeit gingerly - by his other one. She feels him drop a kiss to her hair as her own arms wrap around his back and her cheek presses against the bare skin of his chest. She can both hear and feel his heartbeat. 

It makes her throat ache and her eyes burn with tears.

“I’m sorry Betty,” he whispers. 

“You don’t need to -”

“- I had a feeling Crow would be coming and I could’ve kept you away from the diner. I  _ should _ have.”

She squeezes her arms tighter around him. 

“I understand,” he says. “If you don’t want to come back.” His nose nuzzles into her hair and she wonders if it’s okay to feel safe in his arms. If it’s okay, to want to be held by someone who’s been in a gang; who’s been shot by someone she suspects has some unfinished business with him or Sweet Pea or his father - who is, incidentally, in jail. 

Betty turns her head so that her lips are laying on his skin, and then, very gently, she presses a kiss over his heart.

  
  
  
  
  


“Are you hungry?” she asks, handing him the mug of chamomile tea. At this point, she’s not too concerned whether he likes it or not: there’s no way she’s making coffee - he needs to get some rest and one of the benefits of the tea is that it’s supposed to be calming. Perhaps she’s made it more for herself than him, and it feels reassuring almost, to wrap her hands around the porcelain. 

Jughead is currently dressed in a pair of Nick St Clair’s pants. He’s none-too-happy about it, but his jeans are currently tumbling around the washer in the laundry room downstairs: there had been a splattering of blood just below the front pocket - plus some more on the back. Betty had debated asking if he wanted her to throw in his underwear too, but it had seemed too personal a question and so she’d left them on the bathroom floor before slipping out. She had though, seen enough to know that they’re dark plaid, and isn’t entirely sure whether she’s supposed to have an opinion on this fact. She  _ doesn’t _ really. 

His chest is bare and Betty finds her eyes are drawn to the dark trail of hair leading from his belly button to the waistband of the pants he’s wearing. He’s a little more tanned than she’d expected (not that she’d ever thought about him like this - wearing no shirt and leaning against the kitchen counter) and it looks good on him, she decides.

“I could eat,” Jughead replies to her question. The wording tells her that yes, he  _ is _ hungry.

“How’s pizza?” she says. “Or if you’d rather, I can make -”

“- Pizza’s fine.” He steps closer. His hair is damp and Betty finds that without his beanie, he looks younger. “There’s money in my wallet.”

“I’ve got it,” she replies. 

“No, Betty, I’ll -”

“- It’s my turn,” she argues. “When you try to convince me that your Brooklyn pizza is better,  _ you _ can pay.”

His lips curve into a wry smile and Betty finds that her own begin to mirror them.

“Do you have a preference of toppings?”

“No,” Jughead answers. “Just as long as there’s no pineapple. Nobody has the right to put that on pizza.”

“No pineapple,” she confirms. “Got it.”

As she’s calling in the order, Jughead’s phone rings. She can tell it’s Sweet Pea from the conversation, and can also determine that Toni - the girl he’s crashing with - is fine. There is no sign of the man with the gun, nor his fellow gang members, and Betty finds the tension leave her shoulders as they drop. When Jughead hangs up, he looks over in her direction.

“He’s okay.”

She nods and he takes a seat beside her on the couch.  

“Are  _ you _ okay?”

After taking a moment to think about it, she replies, “I think so.”

His good arm is resting over the back of the cushions and his fingers slide over her shoulder, sinking into the knots and massaging them out as best he can. It feels good, and a sigh escapes her lips.

“Jug -”

He interrupts with his lips on hers, pressing softly at first - a light cover - but then gently coaxing hers into a series of movements that include widening enough to allow his tongue to slip into her mouth. His fingers leave her shoulder to cup the side of her face, raking lightly through her hair as she moves so that her whole body is facing towards his. 

And then the apartment door opens and Veronica makes her presence very obvious.

“Betty - whoa! Um...”

Jughead drops his hand from her face and it takes Betty a few moments to recover the use of her lips for purposes other than kissing. There are tingles rolling in waves up her neck and yes, the circumstances aren’t ideal, but she’s not sorry for kissing him. Not at all.

“I can come back,” Veronica adds. “I didn’t realise you’d….be doing….that.” She waves her hand in their general direction and breezes past the couch on her way to her room. “Grabbing gym clothes. As you were.”

Jughead blinks, embarrassed, Betty guesses, as she closes the door. A grin works its way across her face though as she dips her forehead to his collarbone. He smells like her shower gel - but also like him: piney and something a little sharper - spice maybe. She wants to close her eyes and bury her nose in his skin.

Veronica opens the door again and Betty looks up to find her friend’s eyes wide.

“Oh my God! What happened?”

She’s staring at his shoulder with the large white dressing and there isn’t much of an explanation she can concoct other than the truth. So that’s precisely what she gives her.

Needless to say, Veronica is rather impressed. “And you just dove into the line of fire to save my girl here?”

He’s embarrassed all over again, Betty can tell, like saving her from being shot (saving  _ anyone _ from being shot) is anything short of heroic. She’d seen the terror on his face when Crow had raised the gun at Sweet Pea; seen him scramble to block the shot with his own body; heard him call out her name until the syllables bled into a continuous stream of unintelligible sound.

Jughead says nothing.

“Oh B, promise me you’re not going back there!”

“That’s not…” she starts, and then feels Jughead’s eyes on her. “I’m not in any danger.”

“Betty -”

“-  _ Veronica _ .” She widens her eyes: a  _ this isn’t up for discussion _ look. 

The brunette casts her own eyes over Jughead once more, lingering on his shoulder and then says, very quietly, “You’d better keep her safe.”

His lips move only fractionally and his voice is scratchy, but he murmurs, “Of course.”

A few minutes later, with her gym clothes in her bag and her running shoes under her arm, Veronica exits with the information that she’ll stay at Nick’s, but that if they need her for anything, she’s only a phone call away.

Oh, and apparently, she knows how to fire a gun.

  
  
  
  
  


Betty watches Jughead flag before her very eyes. She can see his lids, heavy and a little red, struggle to lift after each blink. Brooklyn Nine-Nine has been playing for the past forty minutes. She hasn’t seen it before and it turns out to be pretty funny, but neither of them laugh. She knows he’s dwelling on what happened (maybe on what Veronica had said too:  _ promise me you’re not going back there _ ) and there’s a weight between them now that wasn’t there before. 

When he stifles a yawn, she makes the decision that it’s time for bed, and switches off the tv. He turns his head stiffly, his mouth drawn downwards as he questions her without words.

“You need to get some rest,” she tells him, and rises from the couch. When Jughead doesn’t follow, she turns back to face him. “Are you coming?”

“Oh… I thought...Look, I can just sleep on the couch.”

Betty can feel a frown knitting together her eyebrows. “You need a proper bed Jug. And…” She twists the material of her t-shirt round her fingers. “I want to keep an eye on you.”

“Why?”

“Because you got shot.”

“Betty, I -”

“- Because I want to make sure you’re safe,” she adds. 

His eyes cloud over with something indistinguishable, but clear again a few moments later. She doesn’t ask what it was. 

He follows her to her bedroom and eyes the scattering of decorative cushions. 

“It’s a lot of effort,” she tells him. “Taking them all off and then putting them back on like this in a morning.”

Although she expects him to make a joke about wasted time, he doesn’t - just pulls his lips into a semi-smile that appears more genuine than it does forced. “They look nice,” he says quietly.

“Really?”

Jughead is looking at her in such a way that makes the air in the room feel too thick to breathe in. He doesn’t answer her question.

“I’m just going to change.” Betty grabs a pair of pajama shorts and an old t-shirt from her Vixens days. “In the bathroom.”

“Right.” His nod is slow and heavy. 

“Make yourself comfortable.”

By the time she returns, having changed and brushed her teeth, she’s beginning to wonder whether this is a mistake. Jughead is lying in her bed, sheets pooled around his waist which makes her question silently whether or not he’s removed his pants. She gets her answer when she heads over to the window to pull the drapes together and sees them in a pool on the floor. Fighting the urge she has to pick them up and fold them, she climbs into bed on the opposite side of the mattress, careful not to jostle his shoulder. 

It’s still pretty early - early enough at least for it not to be fully-dark outside. A soft light falls over the room once Betty turns out the lamp, and she’s struck again by how attractive he is: sharp and angular in all the right places; soft and gentle in others. 

It’s silent for a long time until she says,

“I don’t want to stop working at the diner.”

He seems to mull it over for a minute or so, exhaling deeply before replying. “I wouldn’t be offended if you did.”

Very carefully, she turns so that she’s lying on her side, facing him. She can see the rise of his chest with each breath he takes and her fingers are itching to trace the faint outline of his abs. 

“I  _ don’t _ want to stop working at the diner,” she reiterates. 

He twists his head to the left so he’s facing her too. In the dim light, she can make out the way his eyes are searching hers to make sure she’s telling the truth. And then, eventually, he says,

“Okay.”

  
  
  
  
  


At some point, Betty figures she must’ve fallen asleep. She wakes some time in the night when the room is dark and the city outside of her window is quiet (or, quiet at least for New York) and finds that the space next to her is empty.

She feels with her fingertips - as though maybe her eyes have ceased working and she’s simply imagined Jughead no longer being there - but her physical search comes up empty too. She lifts her head and listens out for any sound of him in the apartment, but other than the low hum of the air conditioning unit, there’s nothing.

There’s a sinking feeling in her stomach and she hopes to God that he hasn’t gone back to his apartment -  _ or worse: _ that he’s gone looking for Crow.  

The sheets on the other side of the bed are cold, and Betty throws them off, blinking in the darkness before flicking on the lamp. The light is harsher than she’d imagined it would be, and she pads out into the living room. 

There’s no sign of Jughead there either, and she’s suddenly angry that he left without saying anything. (She’s angry that she didn’t wake)

But then, seated on the cool tiles of the kitchen floor with his head cast downward, there he is. Wordlessly, she takes a seat beside him and for a long time, it’s silent. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” he tells her eventually in a hoarse whisper. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I was worried you’d gone back home.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, just sighs and rests his head back against the cabinet.

“Do you want to?” she asks. “Go back home I mean.”

“Yes.”

Her stomach drops.

“And no.”

She catches him appraising her from the corner of his eye. Her pajama shorts have ridden up her thighs but she makes no attempt to tug them back down. 

“I thought he’d have been more disappointed,” he says.

“Who?”

“Trev.”

“Why would…  _ Oh. _ ”

He turns to her, eyes unbelievably vulnerable when he utters, almost imperceptibly, “ _ I’d  _ have been disappointed.”

She wants so desperately to kiss him.

So she does.

Betty is careful when she leans to the side, palming Jughead’s cheek so she can turn his face towards her. His eyelashes flutter as the lids of his eyes sweep downwards, and she smooths her thumb across his cheek as his lips part to meet hers.

They move gently - almost like he’s holding back - so Betty presses hers harder against his. A burst of air fogs the space between them; she can’t work out who it came from, but then she runs out of air so figures it must’ve been him. 

“Betty,” he whispers into the darkness, breath hitting her face and fanning out across her skin.

“What?” She kisses him again because his lips are still parted and he looks _ sad  _ and she just really, _ really _ wants to give in to what she’s been feeling for a while now. His fingers are clutching the material of her t-shirt and she wants him to tug her closer.

“Betty,” he repeats, pulling back and relinquishing her shirt in favour of stroking the strands of blonde hair back from her face. She waits for him to speak, but refuses to drop her fingers from their place at the back of his neck. His skin is soft and warm there and she wants to nuzzle her nose against it.

“You should be in bed.”

His fingers are holding her hair so that it doesn’t fall back onto her face, and even in the minimal light, Betty can see how gentle he is. The dark ink of the tattoo peeking out from under the dressing is a reminder that he hasn’t always been, and yet here he is, gunshot wound obvious, cradling either side of her face like  _ she’s _ the fragile one.

“ _ You _ should be in bed,” she utters back, eyes drawn to his shoulder again.

Jughead sighs but takes her outstretched hand once she’s risen from beside him. She doesn’t let go until they reach the bed, and even then she worries that he’ll wait for her to fall asleep again - then leave. He does though, climb back under the sheets, wincing a little as he uses his right arm to pull them up. Once he’s settled, Betty turns the lamp off and climbs in too, careful not to hurt him. Despite their kiss on the couch earlier, and the one only minutes ago in the kitchen, she’s unsure as to whether she can curl into him like she wants to.

When he stretches out his left arm though, sinking it under her pillow, she inches her body across the mattress until she’s tucked into his side.

“Is this okay?” she asks as she strokes her fingers across his bare stomach until they reach his side. 

“Okay?” he asks, like he’s confused, and then makes a low sound that’s almost a groan. “You have no idea how torturous lying beside you and not touching you really is, huh?”

Betty lifts her head. “You can touch me Juggie,” she whispers, and brings her lips down to his. He kisses her with more pressure this time, splaying his fingers across the bottom of her back beneath her t-shirt. His span is wide; she can feel the heat from his palm rolling up her spine and it’s a delicious feeling.

(She wonders how it’s going to feel when he touches her with  _ both _ hands)

They break for air and she imposes some self-control before things go too far: she’s waited long enough for him to kiss her and she’s a little worried about getting too much all at once. Lying here with Jughead, knowing that he’s safe, is enough.

For tonight.

She lays her head down on his chest so her cheek is resting against the skin over his heart. It beats rhythmically beneath her ear and her fingers walk indiscriminate patterns on his left side.

“Please don’t open the diner tomorrow,” she whispers.

“Betts -”

“- Just take the day,” she urges quietly. “Get some rest.”

She hears him swallow and then his left hand comes up to card through her hair. A kiss is dropped to her crown, his lips lingering and spreading further warmth throughout her limbs. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.”

  
  
  
  
  


Three days after the incident, Betty takes the F from 2nd Avenue to York Street. Veronica hadn’t been awake when she left, which had made it easier to leave without a voiced list of reasons as to why she shouldn’t - as she’s been accustomed to hearing the past two days. 

She hurries along the sidewalk in her sundress and sandals, clutching the bag housing her Keds, shorts and shirt tightly in her hand. Unsure as to whether her nerves are due to passing a group of laughing men outside of the public housing or the fact that Crow could be in the vicinity, Betty tells herself everything is fine; that today is a normal day.  

What is  _ not _ normal however, is that Sweet Pea is already inside the diner when she arrives. It means no good morning kiss for Jughead, but she figures it’s a small price to pay for knowing that he’s not here alone. 

“Morning,” he says with such a teasing edge to his voice that she suddenly feels hot. “Your coffee,” he adds, handing her the  _ bookworm _ mug that’s become unofficially hers. 

Sweet Pea eyes the two of them but obviously decides not to say anything, and busies himself dispensing the sugar pots. 

“How’s your shoulder?” Betty asks, noting the short sleeved button-down he’s wearing. The blue cotton makes his eyes look even more intense and she’s itching to kiss him. 

“It’s fine.”

“The dressing?”

“Fine.”

“ _ Honestly? _ ”

There’s a moment of quiet before he says, “Your expertise might be required at the end of the shift.”

“Got your own personal brand of bedside manner Cooper?” Sweet Pea calls out, and she feels her face flame all the way to the tips of her ears. She says nothing in reply, but mumbles her way through an explanation about needing to change in the bathroom. 

(She’s pretty sure she hears Jughead say the word  _ jackass _ as the door swings closed)

  
  
  
  


Business is slow. Betty wonders whether local gossip about the incident three days ago has done its inevitable damage, or whether it’s simply a matter of coincidence. Either way, when the doorbell chimes at twenty-past ten, the last person she expects to see entering the diner is Veronica.

“Jesus Betty!” she screeches, holding up her phone. “Do you even have cell phone reception here?”

There is no time to answer, because she spies Jughead at the coffee machine. “Do you even allow your staff to keep their phones with them? What if there’s an emergency like the other night and -”

She’s cut off by Sweet Pea, who takes hold of her arm (a little roughly, Betty notes) and pulls her behind the counter and into the kitchen.

“Get your hands off of me!” she shrieks, snatching her arm back. Betty is torn between keeping an eye on the few customers now resuming their eating, and accompanying her friend in the kitchen. When Jughead tips his head towards the swing door, she chooses the latter.

“You’ll scare the customers,” Sweet Pea gruffs out. 

“I don’t care! You idiots over here scared me!”

“V, I’m fine,” Betty urges softly. “They’ve got me.”

“You,” she says, narrowing her eyes and pointing her outstretched index finger at Sweet Pea. “You’d better keep my girl safe.”

“As houses.”

“What?”

“She’s safe as houses,” he repeats. 

Her eyes are still narrowed but she drops her finger and then Betty realises that her colleague is curbing a smirk. He is, quite obviously, enjoying fiery Veronica. “Hmm,” she hums, folding her arms.

“Since you’re here, why don’t you take a seat?” he asks. “Let me bring you some coffee.”

Miraculously, with zero objection, she obeys.

“V, you really don’t have to waste your morning here,” Betty tells her a few minutes later. 

“Keeping watch is not a  _ waste _ Betty. Besides,” she says, adjusting the glasses further up her nose. (She’s not exactly sure whether Veronica even  _ needs _ help in the eye department or whether the black frames are merely part of her observation aesthetic) “Assuming this place isn’t so retro that there’s no wifi, I have research to do.”

Around fifteen minutes later, while Betty is clearing away a now empty table, Sweet Pea heads over to where Veronica is seated, with two plates.

“On the house,” she hears him say, and wonders if the food she hasn’t ordered genuinely  _ is _ on the house, or whether the sum total of eight dollars for the egg-white omelette and the indeterminable amount for the hash browns (which aren’t even on the menu) will be subtracted from his paycheck.

“Made them specially princess.”

As predicted, Veronica remains unimpressed. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”

“Huh.” He folds his arms, very clearly enjoying himself. “Maybe I was too busy staring at your ass to hear it.”

“You’re a misogynist.”

“No baby,” Betty hears him say. “Just appreciative of those dresses you wear.”

He leaves her at that, and heads back through the swing door into the kitchen. “Urgh,” Veronica tuts. “Can you  _ believe _ him?”

There are, however, two very distinct pink circles on each of her cheeks and Betty has the feeling that perhaps she’s enjoyed the exchange more than she’ll care to admit. She shrugs and hides her smile as her friend lifts a forkful of greasy potatoes to her mouth. 

  
  
  
  
  


They close early. There are no more customers after five-fifteen, and Jughead decides to cut his losses. Betty feels bad that he’s paying both her and Sweet Pea to be here when neither of them have done much more than carry out a few orders, wipe tables, make food that isn’t on the menu to please Veronica (Sweet Pea) and clean the shelves behind the counter (Betty)

Veronica, for her part, has stayed the duration with her laptop and innumerable cups of coffee for which - although she hasn’t been billed for - she’s tipped heavily. Betty has noticed her eyes flick on numerous occasions to Sweet Pea: watching him wipe the tables; watching him rub the snake tattoo on his neck - the same one Jughead has on his shoulder; watching him gulp down coffee. Just generally  _ watching him. _

“You hungry yet?” Jughead asks her, fingers skirting her hips as he passes her at the swing door. She’d felt guilty even for eating her tuna sandwich at lunch and had had to stop him from throwing some onion rings into the fryer under the guise that she wasn’t particularly hungry.

“A little,” she admits. “I think there’s some lasagna leftover from last night so at least I won’t have to cook.”

“Actually,” he starts, licking his lips at he looks at hers. Betty’s suddenly desperate to kiss him. “I was going to order pizza. Thought you might want some.”

“Pizza?” Sweet Pea calls over. “From Figaro’s?”

“Where else?” Jughead replies, though she detects a stifled sigh. 

“I’m down for pizza. Veronica?”

She shrugs, which Betty now realises is her pretence at not having an opinion. Having known her for as long as she has, there is  _ nothing _ Veronica Lodge doesn’t have an opinion on, which means she’s trying to appear casual.

This time, Betty doesn’t fight the smile creeping across her lips. 

“What?” Jughead asks quietly.

She shakes her head, steals a quick glance at the other two, and then presses the quickest of kisses to his lips when she concludes neither are watching. “Guess we’re staying for pizza.”

“I saw that,” Sweet Pea calls with a grin, but to her surprise, Jughead simply raises his middle finger to his friend, then uses it to tip her chin upwards. The kiss he plants on her lips isn’t quick, nor hidden, and Betty feels it all the way down to her toes. 

  
  
  
  
  


Ordering pizza with two grown men is not the same as ordering it with your best friend, Betty quickly discovers. In place of their usual medium veggie supreme (or, on occasion, the caprese) is a large pepperoni, a large sweet chili chicken, two portions of garlic breadsticks and some mozzarella sticks too. 

She rises from the booth they’re all seated at to fetch plates, but Jughead stops her with his fingers around her wrist. 

“Where are you going?”

“To get plates,” she replies. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, tugging her back towards him. “Our hands are clean.”

Veronica raises an eyebrow, and the irony isn’t lost on Betty either. She sits without comment, and silently implores her friend to do the same. 

It turns out that Jughead’s declaration of Figaro’s being the best pizza in the whole of New York may just be true. She’s currently devouring her second slice of pepperoni and is trying not to laugh at Veronica’s annoyance regarding the cheese strings dangling from her mouth. Betty does, it has to be said, enjoy a good cheese to dough ratio, whereas her friend has always preferred more sauce. Jughead and Sweet Pea appear to be in their food element, and have already demolished more than three quarters of the breadsticks and much of the pizza too.  

When Sweet Pea’s arm moves from his side to the back of the booth (coincidentally, only a few inches from Veronica’s skin) Jughead moves his foot so that it’s nudging hers. Their friends have both seen them kiss, and so Betty doesn’t hesitate to snuggle a little further into his side. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait between the last chapter and this one. My updating schedule should be back to normal now.

“Jug,” Betty mumbles against his lips. He registers the sound - mainly because she’s stopped kissing him - but chooses to ignore it in favour of finding her mouth again with his. 

“ _ Jug, _ ” she says again, a little more insistently this time, and so Jughead reluctantly opens his eyes. “I think something’s burning.”

“Shit!” 

She’s right of course - he’s all but cremated the pancakes on the griddle and is forced to scrape them off and clean the metal before he can pour out replacement circles of batter. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says (probably once she’s satisfied he’s not going to ruin these ones too) “I don’t want to be a distraction.”

Too late, he thinks, but grins anyway because he can’t seem to control his mouth at all when he’s around her. He flips the first pancake and she turns around, eyeing the grill and then his shoulder.

“Be careful,” Betty instructs. “It’s still sore.”

“Betts, I’m fine,” he replies, though - now that she mentions it and  _ isn’t _ kissing him to distract from the pain - the gunshot wound is still rather angry and red beneath the dressing.

She makes a noise that’s kind of a cross between a snort and a disbelieving murmur, but bounces through the door to the front of the diner where the customers are waiting. He flips the second and third pancakes, then grabs the plate to put them on and grins to himself as he slides the home fries from their skillet into a dish before hitting the bell.

“Order up!” he shouts, and resumes his place at the counter in order to place the non-burned pancakes on the waiting plate. Betty returns to the kitchen with an amused expression as he’s setting a dollop of cream on the top of the stack.

“Table four?”

“Table four,” he confirms as she picks up the food. “You could’ve just waited. Saved yourself the legwork.”

“The  _ legwork _ is the only reason I can wear these shorts and not feel bad for eating ridiculously high-calorie ice cream and pizza,” she returns pointedly, which ends, inevitably, in his unashamed staring as she leaves the kitchen.

No amount of biting the sides of his mouth can remove the smile she’s put there, and Jughead is extremely glad that Sweet Pea isn’t working today: the last thing he needs is someone calling him out on this ridiculous state he’s in.

  
  
  
  
  


Sweet Pea  _ is _ at work the following day, which, coincidentally, is Jughead’s birthday. Neither of them mention this fact; there is no handing over of a card or gift; nobody sings  _ happy birthday dear Jughead _ ; there is no presence of balloons or cake or those god-awful paper hats people insist on wearing at parties. It’s just as he likes it (with the added bonus that Betty has a shift in the afternoon, so he does, in effect, get a gift anyway)

She arrives as he’s completing an order for two hot dogs, two cheeseburgers with fries, and a veggie burger with (inexplicably) a side of chili fries. He’s contemplated telling Sweet Pea to ask the customer whether they’re vegetarian or simply have poor taste in burgers, but decides that he can’t really be blamed if someone eats meat by mistake when the ingredients are very clearly obvious from the menu’s description.

“Hey,” she smiles, tugging the strap of her sundress back up onto her shoulder and nearly making him burn his hand in the process - his concentration on cooking seems to wane when she’s around. 

“Hey,” he replies, reaching his arm out to tug her towards him. “How was class?”

Whatever her reply was is silenced by the kiss she gives him. They do this now, it seems: kiss. Like it’s something they’ve always done; like it’s not a new development in their previously carefully balanced relationship as colleagues (and maybe, at a push, friends) but nothing more. 

Betty giggles against his lips and he wants to recoil at the first thought that enters his head (it’s adorable) but then she presses her lips to his again, once, twice and then a third time before she finally pulls back. 

“It was good,” she grins, “But not as good as that.”

Jughead nods, satisfied. “Once you’re changed and Sweet Pea’s taken this order, it’s time for his break.”

“Okay,” she says, and heads into the bathroom to put on her shorts. 

He hits the order up bell with something close to pizzazz, and then decides he needs to rein himself in. 

A little over twenty minutes later, Betty enters the kitchen without an order in her hand. “Jug,” she says, expression wary and voice quiet. “Your dad’s on the phone.”

He silently curses and feels the muscle in his jaw tick. The diner phone she’s referring to (the one that almost  _ never  _ rings) is not cordless. He can’t simply take the call outside. (He can’t simply call back either)

“Tell him I’m busy,” he says, more sharply than she deserves. 

She nods and the door swings shut and Jughead feels both a combination of guilt, relief, and anger. It’s something, he supposes, that his dad has chosen today to call - that he’s remembered (there were years when, until Toni had showed up with his name scrawled on an envelope, he’s not sure he had) but he resents this situation he’s in. Resents the diner and the customers and their orders of chili fries and burgers and bottomless cups of coffee. 

But then Betty steps back into the kitchen, her footsteps soft and careful until she reaches him and she can slide her fingertips up his forearm, stroking gently at the skin there until the muscles in his face have unclenched.

“He says  _ happy birthday, _ ” she all but whispers.

Jughead swallows, gritting his teeth against the pity that’s now settled in her eyes. 

“Jug -”

“- I have to get back to work,” he says quickly, pulling away before she can kiss him out of sympathy. There are no orders on the hanger but he sets to work making a new batch of chili they don’t really need.

Though he doesn’t look up, he can sense her watching him, gauging silently what her next move should be, and he feels incredibly shitty for it. As he opens his mouth to apologise, she beats him to it.

One corner of her mouth curves upward into something that he guesses is supposed to be a smile. “Happy birthday,” she says.

And then heads back out front. 

  
  
  
  
  


For a while, Jughead doesn’t see her. They’re not particularly busy through the afternoon and when they  _ do _ get orders, Sweet Pea brings most of them in.

“Lovers’ tiff?” he jokes, laughing at himself in the way only he can do.

“My dad called.”

“And?”

“I really don’t want to have to explain to her why I hate this day.”

He shrugs, like it’s simple. “Then don’t. But don’t be a dick to her about it.”

The door swings closed behind him, and Jughead sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. His shoulder chooses that precise moment to protest, groaning in pain at the movement and reminding him of the feel of Betty’s fingers against his bare skin. The thought leads on to the memory of sharing a bed with her only a few nights previously; the way the mattress had dipped next to him; the smell of her pillow (sweet, like her hair) the sounds of her even breaths after her eyes had fluttered closed. 

She’d been wary about him returning to his own apartment the following evening, but he’d assured her everything would be fine. Now he’s not sure what’s more torturous: lying in a bed beside her and not giving into everything he wants to do, or  _ not _ being near her and his mind conjuring up the image of her anyway.

Jughead rubs his hands on the front of his pants and readies himself to call her name, just as the door swings open and in she walks clutching an order.

“Two pieces of apple pie with ice cream,” she says in a way he thinks might be her trying to keep her voice level. It’s tinged with unease though and he feels a renewed sense of self-loathing that, prior to his dad’s phone call, hadn’t been there.

“Betts,” he says, reaching out to tug at her wrist. His thumb smooths over her pulsepoint, rubbing small circles over her skin. “I’m sorry.”

Her eyes soften and she turns into him, stepping closer. “I get why you’re mad at him,” she tells him gently. “But the birthday thing?”

“I’ve always hated it,” he says quickly. He closes his eyes at the mental image of the first birthday after his mom had left: waiting at the table for her to come home; assuming there would be no way in the world she’d miss him turning fourteen. When the model plane had arrived instead of her, something took root deep down in his gut that’s still there, tangling up everything else that’s good. 

He feels Betty squeeze his forearm and the image of the trailer disappears, replaced by the one in front of him - of her, standing in her little navy shorts and white t-shirt, hair pulled back into an elastic so he can see all of her face. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and then brushes his lips against her forehead. 

“Do you want to do anything?” she asks. “To celebrate? Tonight, we could-”

“- No.”

She looks up, confused again. 

“You don’t have to…. There’s no need to celebrate.”  _ I don’t want to. _

Betty opens her mouth again, but whatever she must’ve been about to say doesn’t come. Instead, she just nods and presses her lips to his. “Do you need help with the pie?”

Her question makes him laugh, and Jughead steals another quick kiss. “I’ve got it. You should go make sure Sweet Pea isn’t scaring away any customers.”

Her fingertips trail the length of his arm before she leaves, and he starts to wonder what things might be like had he not met her here, like this. If they’d been in the same class at college or the same bar or both reaching for the cookie dough in the grocery store.

It doesn’t matter. He has pie to heat and ice cream to scoop and a bell he’s starting to hear in his dreams to hit. 

  
  
  
  
  


“So what are you going to see tonight?” Sweet Pea asks him later as they’re clearing away. Betty is at the far end of the diner wiping tables - out of earshot - and Jughead pulls off his beanie to push back the wave of hair that’s tumbling onto his face. 

“I’m not.”

“Thought it was tradition?”

“What’s the point?” he asks. “I’m tired anyway.”

His friend eyes him with something resembling scepticism but says nothing and continues wiping the sauce bottles. 

“You could take Betty.”

He turns his head to look at her again, watching as she bends over the table to rub at a mark he can’t see. 

“What’re you doing with her anyway?” Sweet Pea presses. 

“We’re… I don’t know.”

“Want my advice?” he asks, in a way that makes it obvious he’s going to give it anyway. “Take her on a date man. Girls like Betty… they deserve more than pizza in a diner your dad runs. Or...shit, used to run.”

And therein, Jughead realises, lies the problem. Girls like Betty  _ do _ deserve more. Definitely more than what he can give.      

“Jug, you’re staring.”

He turns away sharply at Sweet Pea’s words but a mere half hour later, he’s walking Betty to the subway as has become customary. She’s holding his hand - had laced their fingers together as soon as he’d locked the door behind them - and seems to be making her steps deliberately slow. 

Despite the fact that there is a lot he probably should say to her, Jughead remains quiet and when they finally reach York Street, the offer of him joining her on the other side of the bridge that he’s expecting doesn’t come. 

Instead, Betty reaches up on her tiptoes, cups either side of his face in those delicate hands of hers, and seals her lips over his. It’s reminiscent of the kiss they’d shared on the night he’d been shot: tentative and gentle and pure in its delivery. 

“Thank you for walking me,” she says, stroking her fingertips along his jaw. 

He watches her disappear into the station and then blows out a breath before turning to head home. 

  
  
  
  
  


Betty doesn’t have a shift the following day, so it’s a surprise to Jughead when, as he’s heading to the door to flip over the ‘open’ sign at the end of the evening, he sees her wearing a beaming grin and holding a plastic box in her hands. To her left is her dark-haired friend Veronica, and he opens the door to let them in.

“What’re you doing here?” he asks, at precisely the same time that Sweet Pea, standing somewhere behind him, whistles out,

“Veronica Lodge. Are you lost?”

A dark eyebrow quirks upwards. “Seems like it,” she says, and moves past Jughead. “Happy birthday for yesterday by the way,” she adds, and then he’s left to stare at Betty again.

She sets the plastic box down on the nearest table, then turns over the sign he’d been on his way to flip. It’s followed by the locking of the door - she’s very careful lately to make sure she checks it too, regardless of who turned the catch - and then she searches his eyes before kissing him quickly. 

Sweet Pea is already pouring Veronica coffee and drawling with a smirk over the word  _ princess, _ but Betty doesn’t seem like she’s about to allow them time alone. She carries the box to the table they’re seated at and removes the lid in the way waiters lift those silver domes from food in the movies. 

On a white plate with a navy rim is a large circular chocolate cake with ruffles of piped frosting and a single candle in the centre. There is no doubt in Jughead’s mind that this is a birthday cake. A delicious-looking birthday cake, but one he doesn’t want.

“I’d say hit the lights but it’s so bright outside that it’s pretty pointless,” Veronica says. Turning to Sweet Pea, she adds, simply, “Matches?”

“I’m on it,” Betty replies before he can get up, and bustles away into the kitchen to find the box Jughead uses in order to light the gas rings. 

It’s more than a little awkward now that it’s just the three of them. Casually, Veronica announces,

“She was baking that at 2am this morning. No girl needs to be craving chocolate fudge cake at such an ungodly hour.”

She  _ made _ it? Jughead swallows. Nobody has ever made him a cake before, let alone one that looks like it came from an upscale manhattan bakery. He stares at it in all of its shiny, chocolately goodness. It smells, quite frankly, amazing.

“Found them,” Betty says, like the matches had, at some point, been hidden from sight. “Just need to grab plates and a knife.”

“I’ll do it,” he tells her quickly, but she shakes her head and ushers him into the booth opposite Sweet Pea and Veronica. “Let me. It’s  _ your _ birthday. Or…” she tucks a wave of blonde hair behind her ear. “Your _ late _ birthday.”

She hurries off again and the three of them wait around, staring at the cake while Jughead tells himself to be grateful that she’s gone to so much trouble. (But the thing is, he doesn’t _ want _ her to go to any trouble when it comes to him)

Finally, Betty lights the candle and they all sing him a happy birthday and he blanches and swallows the dry lump in his throat. He’s aware that Veronica is eyeing him as though he’s a wild animal to be wary of, so he blows out the candle at the end of the song, doesn’t bother to make a wish, and then says,

“It looks really good Betty, thank you.”

She blinks as though he’s spoken in a different language (which, as far as he’s aware, he doesn’t think he has) but hands him the knife so he can cut the first slice - presumably he’s supposed to make a wish here too, so he affords it the same gesture he’d given the candle, and keeps any thoughts about his dad’s release from prison locked away. 

Despite the fact that the cake looks perfectly moist, the words, “I’ll just grab some cream,” leave his mouth. Of course, Betty offers to be the one to collect it from the refrigerator, but Jughead stops her. “Please Betty,” he almost pleads. “Let me.”

In the kitchen, he takes a deep breath and curses at himself. He knows he’s being a dick - feeling this way about a cake that the girl he thinks about day and night has spent the previous evening making him - but his routine has always been a movie at the theatre - alone - and nothing more. This year, he’d intended for it not even to include the movie, and yet here she is, showing up with her goodness and her light, trying to bring that into this world of his that she doesn’t belong to. 

The kitchen door opens with a soft squeak. 

“Juggie?”

He swallows and opens the refrigerator. “I won’t be a minute -”

Her hand is on his back, rubbing gently upwards. “ _ Juggie, _ ” she says again, meaning,  _ close the door. _

“Nobody’s ever made me a cake before,” he says before he can stop himself. His head is still inside of the refrigerator but he can feel Betty’s fingers wrapping around his bicep to tug him back. 

“You deserve…” she trails off. “I just wanted you to know that even if you didn’t want to celebrate, you deserve  _ something. _ ”

She’s so different to anything and anyone he’s ever experienced that he doesn’t quite know how to handle it. 

“It doesn’t have to be your birthday cake,” she adds. “It’s just a chocolate fudge cake that I thought you might like.”

He kisses her at that, urgent and needy, with his hands settling at her hips to lift her onto the counter. She lands with a soft thud on the stainless steel and opens her legs so he can stand between them, her hands massaging the back of his neck as he moves his way down hers. 

A quiet gasp leaves her mouth, breath hot against the shell of his ear and Jughead groans internally, forcing himself to pull away before he breaks all manner of health code practices. 

She rests her forehead against his and attempts to regain her breath with a sheepish smile. 

“That was…”

“Yeah.”

It’s quiet for a moment and then they hear the unmistakable giggle of a flirting Veronica. “Oh God,” Betty groans, but with affection. 

“Maybe we can just hide out in here.”

“Is that what you were doing?” she asks. “Hiding out?”

“Maybe.” He thinks about it again. “Probably.”

“Have you ever done  _ anything _ on your birthday?”

“I used to go see a movie,” he tells her. 

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Nothing says wallowing in self-pity quite like sitting alone at a movie theatre with a giant tub of popcorn huh?” Jughead jokes, but Betty isn’t laughing. 

“Is that what you want to do? Watch a movie alone?”

“No.” He’s surprised to discover that it’s the truth.

“How about with me?”

He lifts his head and stills his fingers against her waist. Yes, of course he wants that, but not if it’s out of her pity. If she’s doing it simply because she feels -

“If you’d like the company,” she says, interrupting his train of thought. “I’d love to come with you.”

He thinks for a moment. “You really want to see a film about the twisted tale of four ghosts trapped in a maze while being stalked by a giant yellow monster?” ( _ Pacman: The Movie _ is playing at the tiny Mexican theatre a couple blocks from his apartment building and he has, it has to be admitted, contemplated going to see it) 

“No,” she deadpans. “But I really want to spend time with you, and if you’re at the theatre, that’s where I’d like to be too.” 

Screw the theatre, he thinks. “Do you have a Netflix account?”

Betty grins, like she knows exactly where this is headed. “Veronica does.”

“You think she’d mind if we borrowed it?”

They hear a giggle from the front of the diner again. “Probably not.”

“Tonight?”

“You going to eat that cake I made you first?” she challenges with a raised eyebrow. 

His smile grows. (Unsurprisingly, the cake turns out to be insanely delicious)

  
  
  
  
  


A little over an hour later, Jughead is seated on Betty’s couch with the chocolate fudge cake in front of him and the smell of popping corn in the air. They’d bid a goodbye to Sweet Pea and Veronica in Brooklyn: he has no idea how his friend had managed to convince Betty’s roommate to hang out with him alone, but they’d shared a look when departing that meant something along the lines of  _ wish me luck. _

“How do you feel about salted caramel corn?” Betty asks from her place at the stove. She’s been watching the kernels carefully and he’s suddenly met with the image of her at 2am that morning, combining eggs and sugar and cocoa and heavy cream to make the masterpiece currently sitting on her coffee table. 

“Jughead?” she questions, making him realise that he hasn’t replied. 

“Uh, sounds great,” he replies despite never having had salted caramel  _ anything _ before. 

“Are you sure? Because I can make regular sweet or salted. Or both, I guess, if you’d prefer,” she says.

“Salted caramel is perfect, Betty,” he reaffirms. “Honestly.”

She nods, seemingly satisfied. “Okay.”

When the corn is ready and she’s tipped it into the bowl that’s now seated on the coffee table beside the cake, she joins him on the couch, nestling into his side like this isn’t their first time watching a movie together. He’s settled on Pulse - partly because he has a strange love for the obscure cult picture, and partly because it’s a horror movie which means an increased chance of Betty hiding her face in the crook of his neck (and if they’re here because of his birthday, maybe it’s okay that he can indulge a little in that department). 

Less than twenty minutes in, she’s tucked herself so tightly into him that he can feel each blink against his chest. She’s warm and soft and her fingertips are drawing idle patterns across his abdomen when they’re not clutching at his shirt. 

The popcorn she’d made is delicious, and he’s been wolfing it down without much time even to chew. Betty seems to be foregoing it in favour of a second slice of cake, which she’s using her finger to eat (and by eat, he means scrape off the frosting). It was mildly distracting to begin with, but is growing increasingly so - to the point that if he hadn’t seen this movie before, he might not understand what’s currently happening on screen.

“Do you want me to turn it off?” he asks, craning his neck so he can see her.

“No,” she says, but stretches her left leg across his lap in a way that he thinks might mean precisely the opposite. 

The new angle affords him a more generous view of her face, where he can see that she continues to swipe the fudge frosting from the cake slice with her finger. A sudden noise on screen makes her jump, and the frosting smears across her bottom lip.

Fuck it, Jughead thinks, and hauls her onto his lap - blocking out the protest from his injured shoulder - to lick that frosting off of her himself. She tastes like dark chocolate with an undertone of vanilla, but feels like soft cotton and moisturised skin. A juxtaposition if ever there was one.

He has no idea how long they kiss for - just knows that he can taste chocolate on his tongue when he pauses to swallow and inhale another lungfull of oxygen before leaning in for more.

He kisses his way down the column of Betty’s neck, and discovers that - by the noises she makes - she enjoys it a significant amount. She arches her back, granting him better access while simultaneously pressing her breasts upwards and further into his chest, and before long he finds his hand wandering upwards underneath her t-shirt.

Her knees dig into the couch cushion as she grinds against him, and Jughead is forced to draw away, breathless and pretty impressed by his own self-control. As much as he wants to spend the night back in her bedroom, Sweet Pea’s words from earlier come back to haunt him.

_ She deserves more than this. _

“What is it?” she asks, toying with the wave of hair flopping forwards into his eyes.

Her lips are swollen and her pupils are dark and large, swallowing most of the green of her irises. It’s just enough encouragement for him to question,

“If I asked you on a date, would you say yes?”

Betty looks so confused that he wants to take the words back - jam them into his mouth and swallow and swallow and swallow until they’re lodged in his throat without an escape route. But then, quietly, she says,

“I thought that’s what this was?”

Oh. She….  _ Oh. _

He scratches at the back of his neck, nervous. “What if… what if I came by here in clothes that don’t smell like burgers and fried onions, and took you somewhere?”

“ _ Took _ me somewhere?”

“Like a restaurant or…” his hand tugs at the hair just above the nape of his neck. “Or maybe a bar or -”

She cuts him off with her lips over his, not ravenous like they had been mere moments ago, but gentle and light; a whisper of a kiss that twists something inside of his chest. 

“Juggie,” she whispers, stroking her fingertips delicately over his shoulders. “I thought you were never going to ask.”


	8. Chapter 8

“So Friday night,” Betty murmurs quietly, inching closer to Jughead who’s now stopped whisking the pancake batter. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“No,” he replies, doing that thing where he very obviously bites the insides of his cheeks to stop himself from smiling properly. His mouth ends up curved into a semi-smirk that makes her want to kiss it off of his face.

“Please?” she inches closer still, cocking her head at an angle she hopes will make her look cute enough that he’ll tell her his plans.

“ _Betty._ ” There’s a hint of warning to his tone. It makes her feel powerful.

“What?”

“You _know_ what.”

“No,” she replies, slipping herself between his body and the counter. “I don’t.”

He’s just tipping her chin upwards with his index finger when Sweet Pea storms into the kitchen, so flustered that he doesn’t even notice Betty sliding out from where she’d effectively trapped herself.

“He’s a dick,” he mutters, shoving the piece of paper in his hand up onto the orders hanger.

“Trouble customer?” she asks, casting her eyes quickly to Jughead, who looks apologetic - as if _he’s_ been the one to interrupt the moment.

“That guy Veronica’s with. He’s a dick.”

“Oh,” both she and Jughead say at the same time. She doesn’t exactly disagree, but maybe calling him a dick might just be a little -

“- Ordering shit we don’t even have on the menu.”

Betty doesn’t bring up the fact that Veronica does precisely that every time she’s here too (or the fact that Sweet Pea _himself_ caters to her dietary preferences without question)

“What does he want?” Jughead asks.

“Ham and eggs - like he’s a character in one of those kids books with the weird pictures.”

“Dr Seuss,” Betty and Jughead respond together. The other man just looks at them blankly and Betty decides it’s probably not worth elaborating.

“So what did you say?” she asks.

“That if he wants those two items together, he could order a ham sandwich and a side of eggs, and leave the bread.”

“What did Veronica order?” she says.

“Her usual.”

“And?”

“And what?” he questions.

“What was your response?”

Sweet Pea rubs harshly at the back of his neck. “You’ve gotta break the eggs anyway and the hash browns are already made so… I told her okay.”

Jughead actually chuckles aloud as Sweet Pea makes a quick exit, scowl etched into his face, and Betty sighs sympathetically.  

“He’s a fool,” Jughead says, and collects the spinach from the refrigerator.

Despite the table they’re seated in not technically lying in her section, she takes over serving duties to avoid any potential scenario in which her co-worker resorts to what she suspects is routine in solving problems: his fists. Between customers, she folds napkins, polishes the coffee machine, and - her favourite part - kisses Jughead as she collects each plate of food.

From time to time, she stops by Veronica’s table to refill their coffee cups, and is clearing away a now-empty booth when her best friend - on her way to the bathroom - is grabbed by Sweet Pea. His hand is curled around the top of her arm and he pushes her against the wall. It’s not hard enough to hurt, but definitely hard enough that Betty can tell he’s mad at her.    

“He your boyfriend?” he practically snarls.

“It’s none of your business,” Veronica bites back, and Betty feels very much like she should disappear into the kitchen, only she’s not entirely sure the exchange between the pair of them won’t go one of two ways (neither of which will have a positive outcome given the fact that Nick is seated in the booth beside the window) She continues wiping the table which has been clean for a while now, and keeps her head down.

“I’m making it my business.”

“You’re a caveman.”

“A caveman you kissed in that bar only a couple nights ago.”

“Keep your voice down!” she hisses, and Betty’s eyes widen involuntarily. “That was a mistake.”

“It didn’t feel like a mistake when you stuck your tongue in my mouth.”

“You got me horribly drunk.”

“You liked it princess,” he argues. “You liked it, and you like _me_.”

“I don’t like anything about you: not your height, not that stupid smirk that’s always on your face, not that gang stamp on your neck.”

“You seemed to like it when you were sucking a hickey onto it.”

“That...won’t be happening again. Ever.”

From the corner of her eye, Betty sees Sweet Pea lean in closer - so that his lips are barely more than a few milimeters away from Veronica’s. Quickly, she looks away and therefore hears, rather than _sees_ the smirk he’s wearing.

“If that’s your story.”

Before either of them spot her, she moves further towards the counter - away from the hallway and the bathrooms. Nick then holds up his cup expectantly, indicating he’d like a refill, and Betty decides that as much as she likes to see the good in people, she’s inclined to agree with her co-worker: He _is_ a dick.

  
  
  


After studying past midnight every night, and relying way too much on the diner’s coffee on the days she has a shift, Friday finally arrives. Betty showers and uses her hair iron to tease a few waves through the blonde strands so that they tumble around her shoulders. Other than the night he was shot, Jughead hasn’t seen her hair out of its usual ponytail, and she wants to look good for his arrival in a half hour. She deliberates over what to wear for at least ten of the remaining thirty minutes, and wishes Veronica wasn’t avoiding her like she’s been doing for the past few days.

Betty had tried to broach the subject of her kiss with Sweet Pea over dinner that evening she’d first discovered the information, explaining that she’d overheard something while she was clearing the table.

“It was a stupid, drunken mistake,” had been Veronica’s reply, followed by, “One that I most definitely will _not_ be repeating.”

And then she had swallowed a large gulp of wine, declared that it was nothing, and changed the subject. They haven’t spoken about the it since.

In the end, Betty settles on a pretty cream blouse in a sheer material, and a pastel skirt that is rather short, but given that Jughead has seen her most days in shorts (and, incidentally, commented on her legs in said shorts) she figures he’ll likely approve.

He still hasn’t told her where they’re going - a fact that’s been driving her crazy since the night he kissed her on her couch and asked whether she’d say yes if he were to ask her on a date.

“But Jug, I don’t know what to wear,” she’d protested the previous night.

“Whatever you wear, you’ll look beautiful Betts,” he’d said. “You always do.”

And if she hadn’t been falling for him before, it had seemed, in that moment, impossible that she wouldn’t do so in the very near future.  

  
  
  


Jughead arrives at the exact time he’d stated he would, buzzing up from the front of the building.

“I’ll be right down,” Betty tells him, but there’s a pause before he answers where she can practically hear him shuffling and scratching the back of his neck in that way he does.

“Uh, can… can I come up?”

“Sure,” she replies, and presses the button on the intercom system beside the apartment’s door.

He’s wearing an uncertain expression when Betty sees him, almost like he’s nervous, and then when he glances down at his hand, she does too. He’s clutching a little bunch of flowers - lilac chamelaucium, if she’s correct - and she now understands why he’d wanted to come up.

“These are for you,” he tells her, handing them over like he’s embarrassed.

“Thank you Jug,” she tells him softly. “They’re so pretty.”

In one of the kitchen cupboards is a selection of vases for her to choose from, and Betty is silently thankful that Veronica is the kind of girl who receives flowers regularly - or at least, regularly enough to have deemed vases a necessity upon them moving into this apartment.

One they’re happily housed in water on the window ledge, she crosses to where he’s standing, takes his hands in hers and kisses him gently. Even though they’ve been kissing a lot since that God-awful night with Crow, tonight it feels different. There are butterflies fluttering in Betty’s stomach - a combination of excitement and nerves - and she wonders whether Jughead feels them also.

“You look…” he starts, but his voice wavers a little. He clears his throat and tries again. “You look beautiful Betty.”

She can feel a blush heating her cheeks - can see one doing the same to his - and decides that yes, he probably has those butterflies too.

“Thank you,” she replies. “You look great too.”

It’s true - he’s put on a blue button-down which highlights just how stunning his eyes are. His pants are smart too - much smarter than she’s ever seen him wear before - and she wonders again what it is that he’s got planned. His beanie is notably absent.

“You ready?”

“Yes,” she says, and grabs her purse from the coffee table. “Let’s go.”

They walk in the direction of the subway station, but Betty is surprised when they don’t catch the F to Brooklyn, but instead head uptown until they reach Lexington Avenue. She keeps this surprise to herself however, and threads her fingers through Jughead’s so he can lead her to the restaurant he’s chosen.

After numerous consultations with the mapping app on his phone, they arrive at a door which is being guarded by two immaculately dressed brunette women.

“I have a reservation,” Jughead says in a tone that appears to betray his uncertainty.

“Under what name?”

“Jones,” he replies, and then adds, “Forsythe Jones,” in such a whisper that Betty barely hears it. She decides not to comment on what is obviously his real name, and isn’t sure how to feel about the fact that he’s used it now - for _this._

One of the women consults her ipad and then deems Jughead’s statement to be correct. They’re accompanied in the elevator by the second woman, who makes no attempt at conversation during the somewhat alarmingly fast ascent. Neither Betty or Jughead speak either until they’ve been delivered to a man wearing a black three-piece suit, who then escorts them to their table.  

The whole place is visually stunning. There are glorious views of the city to three sides, and Central Park to the fourth. Betty isn’t quite sure whether they’re in a restaurant with a lively bar, or a lively bar which happens to also serve food.

“Can I get you something to drink?” the man asks. “I would suggest the Paloma or the Rum Horchata.”

“Oh,” Betty gasps, somewhat bewildered. She closes her mouth and then reopens it to ask whether they might have a few minutes to decide, but Jughead, in a panic it seems, says,

“Yes, two.”

“The horchata?”

Betty does not know what a horchata is, but Jughead is already confirming their order with a nod before she can ask. He opens his menu and so Betty does the same, the items confirming her predictions that this is a tapas place. It’s only when she’s halfway down the page that she sees the prices.

Jughead must be watching her, because he says, “Is this okay? Do you not like anything?”

“I _do,_ ” she replies quickly. “But Jug,” she whispers the next part. “It’s so _expensive._ ”

“You don’t… Betty, I’m not expecting you to pay. It’s fine.” He rubs at the back of his neck again. “I have enough.”  

There is a slightly sinking feeling in her stomach and she hopes more than anything that he hasn’t brought her here under the impression that this is what she’d expected from him. She wants to tell him this, but he’s now wearing an expression that makes her worry that by indicating the high prices, she’s inadvertently implied that his bank account doesn’t match that of the other people seated at the tables around them.

“Do you like calamari?” she asks, hoping to brush past his comment. Aside from the patatas bravas, it’s the cheapest thing on the menu, though still extortionate at over twenty dollars.

“I like all food,” he says. “You choose.”

By the time their drinks are delivered - in blue glassware that houses ice cubes the size of mini Rubik’s cubes - Betty has calculated the total cost of their six selected dishes at a little over $160. The total has not taken into account their drinks, nor tax, the service charge and tip, and she wills the food to be so utterly delicious that she can say the price is justified.

It is not.

She eats two of the five garlic-chilli langoustines, a small helping of the (already minimal) patatas bravas, and a little over a quarter of the Spanish chorizo frittata.

“You like it?” Jughead asks her after swallowing a mouthful of the albóndigas.

“It’s delicious,” she lies, feeling instantly guilty, and pretends that her empanadilla has more flavour than it does. She also pretends that she’s full so that this generous man opposite her won’t still be hungry when they leave.

“Are you sure you don’t want any more Betts?” he asks, already reaching for the rest of the calamari.  

“I’m sure - thank you.”

She remembers how much pizza he’d eaten when they’d been joined by Veronica and Sweet Pea, and there’s a wince fighting to escape her mouth. She hopes he’s already eaten.

  
  
  


Their empty plates are cleared away, and dessert menus are presumptuously set down in front of them.

“You’d like coffee?” the server says in a sort of question-statement hybrid, and Betty speaks before Jughead can confirm that they would.

“No thank you.”

Jughead blinks at her and their server disappears without another word. The service, for the most part - though prompt - has been rather cold, and Betty decides that if it were a competition between this place and the diner, the latter would win without question.

“Is there something wrong?” Jughead asks.

She swallows and considers her words carefully. “I’m worried that you’ve brought me here because you think this is what I expected.”

It takes her a few moments to lift her gaze to meet his, where she finds a look in his eyes that’s so vulnerable it makes her heart clench. “I thought...I uh…. haven’t exactly been on many dates before. Did I get it wrong?”

“Jug, no!” she replies quickly, reaching across the table to take his hand in hers. His fingers don’t squeeze back: they’re loose and passive. “You didn’t get _anything_ wrong.”

“Are you sure? Because -”

“- This place is stunning - really, it is. But the reason we’re doing this is because we want to get to know each other right? Outside of work?”

“Right,” he says, nodding slowly, like he has no idea what she means.

“If we order dessert and coffee, then the check’s going to reach about $300.”

“Betts, I can pay the check if that’s -”

“- That’s _not_ what I mean,” she urges gently. “Juggie, for $300, we could visit that kind of dodgy-looking Mexican place two blocks south of the diner like, ten times.”

“You deserve better than Gloria’s, Betty.”

She shakes her head. “I’d rather have ten dates with you there than spend all of this money on one dinner.”

Jughead still doesn’t look convinced, and she squeezes his hand again. “What’re you saying?”

“I’m saying, remember the night you walked me to the station and we got ice cream? And that night we ordered pizza from Figaro’s? _They’re_ the types of things I want to do with you. I want us to be comfortable.”  

“You’re not comfortable somewhere like this?”

“Are _you?_ ”

He’s quiet for a moment, but then admits, “I’m starving. And this hor… horch - whatever it is - is disgusting. Tastes like blended rice.”

Betty giggles, and it coaxes a smile onto his face too. “Then let’s get out of here and feed you properly.”

  
  
  


“What’ll you kids have?” the lady standing at the end of their table (now in a diner rather than a penthouse restaurant) asks. She’s clutching a coffee pot in one hand, and proceeds to pour it into their mugs before they can protest. Betty wonders whether she should feel slightly offended by her use of the word ‘kids’ but she isn’t - not at all. The place reminds her of Pop’s, and then she has a fleeting thought that if the diner owner himself and this lady - Pauletta, judging by her name tag - were to meet, they might just hit it off.

Jughead’s head is tilted a fraction to the left and she realises he’s been watching her. Betty nods at him to order, and he says, simply,

“Two number threes and a twenty-seven. A forty-three and a forty-four please.”

She hasn’t looked at the menu herself: had told Jughead when he’d admitted being a regular here before he’d taken on the responsibility of his father’s diner, that he should pick her the thing on the menu he’d most recommend.

Pauletta delivers them two milkshakes no more than five minutes later: one vanilla, one strawberry. They’re topped with a mountain of cream and sprinkles, a cherry on the vanilla one, and, unsurprisingly, a strawberry on the strawberry one.

“Which is mine?” Betty asks, her mouth watering.

“I thought we could share,” Jughead replies. “They’re both as good as each other and you shouldn’t have to choose.”

She rises from her side of the table and slides into the booth next to him, sealing her lips over his before he can even get the chance to ask what she’s doing. His hand comes up to cup the side of her face, and she can feel him smiling so wide against her mouth that the kiss becomes, simply, their lips brushing together.

“We can share more easily if I sit here,” she says when they break apart, but what she really thinks is, _this - right here - is what is want._

Their plates of food arrive around fifteen minutes later, during which time they’ve covered the subjects of school and favourites, Jughead’s years spent in the gang his father was the leader of, and the death of Jason Blossom - which has left Betty’s niece and nephew without a father.

Other than the brief mention of his father and Polly, they have - very notably - stayed clear of talking about their families. Betty decides this is a conversation for another time, maybe one where they’re lying on her couch or in her bed. That final thought stokes the heat in her stomach, so she focuses on the mountain of fries on her plate and the grease dripping from the cheese.

Again, her mouth waters.

“So good,” Jughead mumbles with a mouth full of burger, bacon and cheese.

As she takes a bite and tastes the roasted peppers combined with the cajun-seasoned meat, she’s inclined to agree. She snuggles a little closer into his side, the bare skin of her leg brushing his jeans, and he turns to look at her. His eyes are different than they had been in the restaurant in Manhattan - lighter; more sure - and he uses them to tell her he’s having a good time. Briefly, Betty rests her head against his shoulder, sighs contentedly, and takes a second bite of her burger.

Unsurprisingly, she’s defeated a little over half-way through.

“Where do you _put_ it?” she laughs as Jughead makes a start on her leftover fries having finished his own.

He shrugs and dips a handful of them into the ketchup pool on the side of his plate. “I’m a medical marvel Betts.”

She eyes his chest under that shirt, thinks about the couple of times she’s seen him without any shirt at all, and decides that if he always eats like this, then he most definitely is.

They sit for a while after they’ve finished, too full and tired and comfortable to leave. Jughead moves his arm so it’s resting over the top of the booth and says, softly, “C’m here.”

There isn’t much more than an inch of space between them to begin with, but she closes it anyway, smiling as his arm drops so that it’s holding her against him. Betty lets her hand walk to his chest where she lays her palm flat before slowly scrunching her fingers inward, then back out again.

  
  
  


Eventually, they manage to summon the energy to move, and Jughead takes her hand in his after paying the bill, leading her out into the warm night air and towards the station.

They sit quietly during the train ride, Betty resting her head on his shoulder again until they reach 2nd Ave and exit the carriage. The air outside is heavy and still - the signs of an imminent thunder storm - and they walk the streets of the east village until they arrive at Betty’s building.

“I’ll walk you up,” Jughead says, and waits for her to open the door. When it buzzes, he holds it ajar for her to step through first, and she kisses him for his thoughtfulness; for the effort he’s put into the evening; for making her feel so comfortable despite their conversation in the first restaurant.

“You taste like strawberries,” he tells her, and then drops a kiss to her hair.

Upstairs, they linger at the door of her apartment, a little unsure somehow, despite the overall ease of the past couple hours. Betty wants him to come inside, but can’t think of how to tell him this without offering coffee or tea - or outright specifying the truth.

“So,” she says, leaning in to kiss him once more.

“So,” he repeats quietly, “Guess I should head back to Brooklyn.”

She nods and he kisses her for the last time before turning to leave. And then she finds her voice. “Or you could stay?”

Jughead turns and glances back up to her face. She swallows and opens the door wider. “Stay.”


	9. Chapter 9

_ “Stay.” _

Jughead has no idea who closes the door, but it slams hard enough that the floor beneath his feet vibrates. Betty’s mouth is on his (or his is on hers - the specifics don’t really matter) and her hands are tangling in his hair as they stumble backwards. Her body collides with something - the couch maybe - and so he scoops her up so she won’t get hurt.

“Juggie,” she breaks away breathlessly to gasp. “Your shoulder.”

“My shoulder’s fine Betts,” he mumbles against her lips, and then kisses her again. He would, quite honestly, take another bullet if it means he gets to keep doing this.

Somehow, he navigates their joined bodies to the kitchen where he’s able to set Betty atop of the counter in order to free his hands to push back her hair. Jughead leaves her lips for a moment, beginning a descent along the column of her neck until he reaches her sternum. He laves the dip with his tongue and feels her hot breath burst against his ear. It simultaneously burns and gives him chills, and when he feels her teeth tugging at his lobe, his knees almost buckle. 

He’s pressed against her centre, her legs drawing upwards occasionally which brush the side of his thigh, when she whines. 

If his body had been slowly burning before, then it’s an indistinguishable blaze now.

Jughead moves his mouth back up her neck until he can suck at the spot just below her ear. He uses his teeth to graze the skin there, and then bites down gently when she sinks her nails into his back. 

A smile he’s unable to stop breaks out when she makes that whining noise again and tugs impatiently at his shirt. It comes loose from his pants and then her fingertips are sinking into the skin either side of his waist. 

Pulling back no more than a couple millimeters only to snatch in a pocket of air, he returns his lips to hers, slipping his tongue into her mouth. Again, he tastes strawberries.

“Bed,” Betty gasps. “Bedroom.” Her fingers are already undoing the buttons on his shirt when he picks her up again, hands hooked under her thighs so he can feel how hot her skin is. Jughead just about manages to navigate the short hallway without incident as she sucks on his pulsepoint hard enough that he already knows it’s going to leave a mark. 

By the time he reaches her bed, Betty is tugging at his open shirt, desperately trying to rid him of the material. He puts her down on the mattress - not particularly gently - and shrugs off the remaining sleeve before helping her with hers. The sight of her in her cream bra though, the lace sculpting her breasts and each strap completed with a tiny pink bow, is sobering.

He doesn’t want to rush this. Doesn’t want to look back in the morning and not remember every single detail about her.

And so, when her hands fly to his belt buckle, he captures them with his own and brings them to his lips, exhaling until he can see straight again.

“Slowly,” he tells her quietly. “Slowly.”

She lies back on the comforter and Jughead slides his palms from her hips to her bra, watching how her body arches in response. He reaches for the zipper on her skirt and pulls gently until it hits the bottom, at which point he grips the hem to tug it down her legs. 

Her underwear matches.

Of course it does.

“You’re so beautiful Betty,” he murmurs against her skin - more to himself than her - as he kisses his way from the inside of her ankle to her thigh. She sucks in a breath when his mouth reaches the edge of her panties, and so he gives her exactly what she wants.

A kiss.  _ There. _

“Jug,” she moans, arching upwards again when he starts at her other ankle and works his way up  _ that  _ leg.

“I know,” he grins at the underside of her knee, pausing only momentarily before going higher until he can kiss her again over the lace. This time, it’s damp. “But let me go slow baby,” he says. “Please.”

She doesn’t respond in words, but threads her fingers through his hair when he plants a trail of kisses from the top of her underwear to the lace at her bra. There’s a clasp at the front and he fumbles with it clumsily until Betty helps him out, sliding her fingers over his, then nudging them until he lifts them away and she can work the metal out of its home. 

She lets him do the rest.

He peels away the lingerie and discards it somewhere over the side of the mattress before beginning again with his mouth where he left off. With his thumb, he smooths over the soft skin of her left breast and watches her nipple harden in response.  With his other thumb, Jughead pays the same attention to her other breast, and then chooses that one to close his mouth around.

Betty’s intake of breath is sharp and it makes him grin as she pulls a little on his hair. 

When he moves his hand down to stroke over her underwear, she tugs again on his hair, just enough that he pauses his swirling tongue and lifts his gaze to meet hers. 

“Take them off.”

He does.

  
  
  
  
  


“You’re really good at that,” Betty murmurs sleepily, burrowing her cheek against his chest. 

He pauses in the running of his fingertips down her arm to press a kiss to her forehead. “At what?”

“Stroking my skin.” Her eyelids are heavy but she blinks them back open. “Which you’ve stopped doing.”

Jughead chuckles quietly and with the hand that wasn’t drawing lazy patterns on her arm, pulls her closer. She hadn’t bothered to put on pajamas after he’d taken off all of her clothes, and he can feel her breasts pressed against his side.  

“Sorry,” he says, and resumes his ministrations.

“Jug?” she asks after a few moments. “What did you want to do? Before you took over the diner I mean.”

Her eyes have swept closed and the blinds she hasn’t quite fully angled shut are letting in pinpricks of light from the city outside; he can see that her lips are slightly parted (can feel it too as she exhales at his skin) and there are a few strands of her hair falling into her face. He smoothes them back gently and swallows his sigh.

“A writer.”

Her eyes open as she lifts her head from his chest. “What kind of a writer?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

It’s a lie. He _ does _ know. (It’s something he tries desperately not to think about when he falls into bed each night) 

“Weren’t you studying?”

“I didn’t really -”

“- Don’t forget about it,” she interrupts in only a fraction louder than a whisper. “When your dad gets out...you can go back.”

“Maybe,” he mumbles, tucking the wave of hair falling forwards back behind Betty’s ear.

“No maybe,” she  _ does _ whisper this time, holding his hand at her neck as she leans down. Her lips brush against his when she says, “ _ Definitely. _ ” 

And then she kisses him, all soft and slow and gentle, like this really matters to her, before resting her head back on his chest. “I want to discover everything about you, Jughead Jones,” she says on a yawn. “ _ Everything. _ ”

He rubs a hand over her back, settling at the top of her arm where it dips at her bicep, and thinks,  _ I feel the same about you. _

“Go to sleep Betts,” he says instead, and buries his nose in her hair. 

  
  
  
  
  


At some point in the early morning, when Betty’s blinds are filtering strips of golden light across the sheets, he wakes. There’s something tickling his nose, and when he scrunches it and the offending thing follows, Jughead blinks open his eyes. There are a few strands of blonde hair across his vision and it makes him smile. 

Very gently, he brushes them off and smooths them carefully away from Betty’s face. He takes a moment just to look at her, watching as her chest rises and falls in rhythmic succession, and then glances at the little clock seated on the bedside table. 

“You could always call in sick,” she mumbles, stretching with a whine he finds utterly adorable. When he looks down at her, her eyes aren’t open like he’d expected (although, in fairness, he’s surprised to find her awake) and so he settles his head back against the pillow, carding his fingers through her hair just because.

Just because he  _ can. _

It’s a somewhat powerful and giddy feeling, and he’s almost glad her eyes are shut so she can’t see it written across his face. 

“As good as that sounds,” Jughead tells her, stroking the shell of her ear. “I kind of have to be there.”

Betty’s lips form a pout - still, her eyes remain closed - and he chuckles lightly. “Sucks to be you.”

“Not really,” he returns, shuffling around on the mattress so he can draw her closer. “My favourite waitress has a shift today.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s she your favourite?”

“The shorts,” he returns simply. “Mainly the shorts.”

At that, she cracks an eye and peeks at him from under the lid. A moment passes where they merely watch each other, and she looks so fucking beautiful he thinks, with the sunlight - tentative though it is - spilling over her. Her lips twitch upwards in a grin, and he leans over to kiss it off. 

She tugs with her hands around his upper arms so that he’s covering her body beneath the sheets, and lifts her hips a fraction. She grazes his dick and a heavy breath leaves his mouth, tumbling into hers as she continues to kiss him lazily - like they have all the time in the world. 

Neither of them are wearing anything underneath the privacy of the comforter, so when Betty arches her back and lifts her hips again - higher this time, all he has to do is inch forward to be inside of her. 

Jughead goes slowly, careful not to hurt her despite her obvious readiness coating the tip of his dick. He knows Betty can handle herself; knows she’s not some fragile little thing, and yet, all he wants to be with her is gentle. 

He sinks further inside of her until he’s buried to the hilt and she’s gasping against his shoulder. It doesn’t take long for them to find the slow, steady rhythm of early morning sex - the kind that means he can press kisses across her collarbone and between her breasts and along her jaw. He can suck too, on her pulse point and then nibble lightly with his teeth so she’ll moan against the shell of his ear.  

“Jug,” she whisper-cries, her eyes closing as he lifts her thigh. Somehow, he manages to keep the pace when she says his name like that again, her fingertips sinking into the skin at the back of his neck.

He doesn’t really know what she means - what she  _ wants _ \- and she doesn’t elaborate. But her breaths against his ear grow shallower; a little more uneven; interspersed with gasps of,  _ Oh _ and _ I’m  _ and _ F-  _

Watching Betty come undone beneath him is undoubtedly the best thing Jughead has ever seen. Her leg tenses and then goes limp in the crook of his arm as her eyelids flutter and slowly open.

He stills inside of her - careful not to move when she’s so sensitive despite the almost agonising ache - but then she squeezes around him: a move so unexpected that he nearly comes there and then.

“Betts,” he groans as she does it again and his elbows dig deep into the mattress. With his forehead against her collarbone, Jughead moves slowly as she meets his hips with hers and squeezes a final time. He spills into her, breathless and with sweat collecting on his skin, the air beneath the sheets damp and smothering in the best kind of way. 

The move he makes to pull out of her and roll to the side is laboured - she is so warm and so soft and so… something that resembles what he can only think of as  _ home, _ that putting any more space than necessary between them seems ludicrous. Betty blinks at him with hazy eyes and pretty eyelashes and Jughead wonders whether he’s ever woken up in a better way than this.    

When she rejoins him from the bathroom a minute or so later, slipping under the sheets and burrowing so impossibly close that he can taste her just by inhaling, he decides that no, he hasn’t.

  
  
  
  
  


Betty’s apartment is in a much more favourable location than Jughead’s for most things, but the commute to the diner is not one of them. By no means does it take a horrendous amount of time, but by the time they reach York Street, he’s calculated that there’d have been an extra ten minutes of lying in bed had they stayed at his place the previous night. 

It’s simply a thought: the idea of Betty _ actually _ setting foot inside of his apartment, with its crappy excuse for an air conditioning unit and the questionable fellow residents she might encounter in the stairwell, is not one he’s desperate to make a reality. She deserves considerably more than a sagging mattress and the inexplicable lingering smell of cooking fat. 

“Will you hold my hand?” she asks as they exit the carriage. Jughead looks down at her fingers which are curled a little inwards, and links them with his, and wonders why she felt like she even needed to ask. It’s him, if either of them, who should be doing that. 

“Makes me feel safe,” she says quietly - so only he can hear despite the thrum of activity on their way through the barriers. 

He feels that blooming, impossibly full feeling in his chest and can’t think of the right words to say. In the end, his brings their joined hands up to his lips, kissing each of her fingers in quick succession, and then tightens his hold once their joined palms are back to swinging gently between them. Betty rests her head on his shoulder, hums in contentment and Jughead feels a smile spread so wide across his lips that it seems as though his face might break. 

The air outside of the station is already warm and tinged with the faint scent of cut grass. Betty is wearing her shorts - she’d pulled them on after showering and he’d been too appreciative of the sight to ask whether she feels comfortable enough to wear them walking alongside him (maybe _ that’s _ why she’d asked him to hold her hand) and her long legs have a golden hue as the sun hits her at the corner of the block. 

They reach the diner and he unlocks the door, watching carefully for any activity differing from normal. Nothing is out of the ordinary, and he ushers her inside, locking the door again behind them. 

“I’ll put the coffee on,” she tells him, rounding the counter and procuring a filter for the ground beans. Jughead simply watches her, not really sure what he wants to do or say - just that he knows he wants it to be  _ something. _

And so, on his way to the kitchen, he wraps an arm around her waist, buries his nose at that spot just between her ear and her neck, and says, “Can I take you out again?”

Betty doesn’t turn, just sets the pot of water down on the hot plate so she can reach behind her to stroke his hair.

“If you’ll tell me everything about you. I want the good and the bad.  _ All _ of it Juggie.”

A long exhale. His eyes close, and he nods against her. “All of it.”

In the kitchen, he makes a start on the pancake batter as he always does - discovering the key to getting it light and fluffy and plenty of aeration through whisking before letting it rest has been something of a revelation, and he now recognizes that he does, in fact, make a decent stack of pancakes.  

Next, he begins cubing the potatoes for homefries, before de-seeding and dicing the bell peppers. 

Betty brings him a mug of coffee when he’s almost done, setting it down on the counter beside him as he slices through the final white onion on his board.  

“Everything ready?” he asks. 

“Yep.” She glances at the clock. “With ten minutes to spare too.”

“Good,” Jughead replies, setting the knife down to turn his attention to the three blueberry pancakes he’s been keeping warm on the hot plate. He serves them up, scatters more fresh blueberries on top and then finds the syrup.

“What’s this?”

“Your pancakes,” he tells her, placing the dish in front of her. “You didn’t eat anything earlier.”

The look she gives him is so soft that he can’t help but kiss her. 

“Jug, you really didn’t need to -”

“- Eat your breakfast baby,” he instructs, and then resumes slicing the onion.

  
  
  
  
  


Sweet Pea arrives a little after eight-thirty, the later start his reward for being the one to clear away with Ethel the previous evening so Jughead had been free to leave, shower and be ready to meet Betty across the river.

“I’m not going to be subjected to you guys making out over the pancake stacks am I?” he asks as he shoves up an order for scrambled eggs, toast and bacon.

“No.”

“Good. The heart eyes thing is more than enough.”

Jughead scoffs and cracks an egg against the side of his bowl. “That’s… I don’t…”

“Jug, you look at her like she hung the fucking moon or something.”

He feels his ears flame and is glad the tips are hidden beneath his beanie. He’s also glad that Betty’s out front serving customers rather than listening to this conversation.  

Unable to think of anything to respond with, he asks, “Don’t you have coffee to pour?” and Sweet Pea slopes off with a satisfied smirk. 

Not too long later, when he’s smothering two waffles with bananas and cream, Betty enters the kitchen and sets an order on the hanger.

“An egg-white omelette and some hash browns,” she says.

“Veronica’s here?”

“Yeah. And she looks… I don’t know. A little  _ off. _ ” 

Jughead finds that hard to believe. He’s never seen her looking anything other than  _ on. _ “In what way?”

“She’s got this look in her eyes. It’s kind of like a stare, and there’s minimal blinking. Her knee is bouncing too - like she’s had way too much coffee.”

“Did you ask her what’s wrong?”

“Yes,” Betty replies. “She said she’s fine.”

He shrugs. “Maybe she  _ is _ fine.” He dusts the waffles with powdered sugar. “These are ready, by the way.”

She takes a plate in each hand and chews on her bottom lip. “Maybe,” she considers aloud, and then heads through the swing door.

It opens again a couple minutes later - announcing Sweet Pea’s arrival before he says. “Three number eights. And if you feel like making a set of extra pancakes for your oldest friend, then -”

He’s interrupted, rather unceremoniously, by the door swinging open so hard it hits against the wall. 

“Veronica, you can’t go in there!” comes Betty’s voice, but the brunette seems to have no regard for what she’s not supposed to do, and marches into the kitchen.

“You!” she announces, pointing her finger at Sweet Pea. “You still want to take me out on a date?”

Jughead looks first at Betty, who appears as equally unsure about what to do as he is, and then at Sweet Pea, who’s wearing an expression that’s a mix of amusement and surprise. 

“Like that’s even a question princess.”

“Good,” Veronica half-shouts, her chest heaving and her dark eyes even more obsidian than normal. Jughead is, it has to be said, a little afraid. He watches Sweet Pea stare at her for a beat before tugging her to him - so hard that she crashes against his chest. He all but picks her up and crushes his lips against hers in a kiss that’s bordering on violent. 

“Oh,” he hears Betty’s quiet voice gasp, at which point she turns back towards the front of the diner and walks away. He too, turns his attention away, and looks back to the grill where three circles of buttermilk pancakes are beginning to smoke. 

“I’ll pick you up tonight at eight,” he hears Sweet Pea tell her, before once again, the door between the kitchen and the front of the diner swings open. When Jughead looks up, he expects to see his Sweet Pea winking at him, but instead it’s Betty’s roommate standing beneath the order hanger looking somewhat dazed.   

They look at each other for longer than is comfortable, at which point Veronica says, “I should go.”

He’s not even sure she stays to eat her breakfast. 

  
  
  
  
  


Towards the end of the morning, when the breakfast rush is over and there are only a handful of customers seated in booths, the diner phone rings. 

Someone - no doubt Betty, Jughead suspects - answers it on the fourth peal. No more than fifteen seconds later, she appears in the doorway.

“Jug,” she says gently. “That was your dad.”

His head snaps up from where he’d been looking down at the chopping board. She crosses to where he’s working, places her hand over his so she can take the knife, and then sets it down beside the mushrooms. Her voice is quiet and calm and careful when she adds,

“He said he’s getting out.”

It’s a long time before Jughead can swallow hard enough to speak. “When?”

“Monday.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the comments and kudos. You guys are awesome :) x

Despite not having her next shift until Wednesday, Betty rises early on Sunday morning and pads into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes as she makes for the refrigerator. She reaches up to the cupboard housing Veronica’s expensive glassware collection, and opts for the sole Ikea tumbler that had cost her $1.99 when she’d first moved to the city. She’s pouring orange juice into it and thinking about whether or not to text Jughead or simply show up at the diner with her laptop - she’s been concerned for him since the previous day’s phone call from his dad - when the door of Veronica’s bedroom opens and a very tired-looking Sweet Pea stumbles out. He scrubs a hand over his face and then rakes it through his already messy hair before properly opening his eyes - which is when he sees Betty.

“Good morning,” she muses with a smirk she doesn’t even  _ try _ to suppress. “I didn’t realise you were... _ here. _ ”

He stretches, his t-shirt riding up and exposing a dark trail of hair Betty doesn’t feel comfortable looking at. “Really?” he grins. “You didn’t?”

A wave of secondhand embarrassment washes over her and she focuses back on the carton of juice in her hand, choosing to very carefully screw the cap back on. “I went to bed early.” (For which, she is extremely grateful, she decides) “Do you want something to eat?”

“Nah,” he says, heading towards the apartment’s door. “Gotta be at work soon and I’ll grab coffee there.”

“Is Veronica…”

“Sleeping,” he replies with a small, soft smile, like he’s remembering something he’s not about to share. 

“Oh.” She sips from the glass as Sweet Pea reaches for the handle. “I was going to come by - for breakfast I mean,” she says. “I have some work to do and...uh… I guess I’m worried - about Jug.”

“His dad getting out?”

“He just seemed -”

“- It’s complicated Betty,” he cuts in. “That’s all. He’ll be fine.”

“Right.” She dips her head and stares at the pink nail polish on her toes. Except, what if he’s  _ not  _ fine? “I was going to hang out at the diner today. Work on my assignment and something else I’ve been thinking about.” She doesn’t go into specifics. “But I don’t want him to think I’m hovering.” 

Sweet Pea lets out a little chuckle and then brushes his fist over his lips. He’s wearing a number of heavy rings and Betty suddenly has a mental image of him removing them all last night under Veronica’s instruction. “I think you could do pretty much anything and Jug’d moon over you for it.”

She’s not quite sure how to respond, and so finds herself taking another sip of orange juice. 

“You want me to wait for you to get dressed?”

“That’s sweet of you,” she replies. “But I need to put a load of laundry in first. Besides, it’s been a while since V and I caught up and -”

“- You need to talk about me?” he grins. “Say no more Cooper. I’ll see you later.”

And with that, he leaves, tossing a wink over his shoulder as he closes the door behind him. 

Betty leans against the counter, pondering what must’ve happened for Veronica’s abrupt change of heart regarding her co-worker. She glances at the clock on the wall and realises it’s way too early to expect her best friend to surface, so takes her orange juice back to her own bedroom. Her bed linen is clean after Friday night (and Saturday morning’s) events, but her laundry bag is pretty full after a collection of shifts at the diner and the generally hot weather they’re having, so she pulls on a clean sundress and hoists the laundry bag over her shoulder. 

As it’s early and it’s unlikely anyone else will be doing laundry before seven am on a weekend, Betty takes the liberty of using two machines: one for her darker clothes, the other for her whites and pastels - which, incidentally, include the bra and matching panties that Jughead had helped her out of only twenty-four hours previously. The memory makes her flush, and she leaves the machines to do their job as she heads back upstairs to make herself look presentable.

  
  
  
  
  


An hour or so later, once Betty has collected her laundry from the machines downstairs and folded it back into its respective drawers, Veronica emerges from her room wearing silk pajamas.

“Morning,” Betty says, ensuring she adds a pointed lilt to her voice. “Sleep well?”

Veronica’s eyes narrow. “I did.”

She takes in her friend’s appearance and wonders whether the pajamas are simply for show. From Sweet Pea’s earlier expression (and comments) she doubts he’s even seen them. 

“How was your date?”

Veronica’s eyes narrow further. “What do you know?”

“I might have seen a certain tall, dark, tattooed co-worker leaving earlier this morning.”

“Oh B,” she groans dramatically, hiding her face with her palms. “What am I doing?”

“I don’t know,” Betty replies. “What _are_ you doing? Tell me it’s not some sort of scheme relating to Nick.”

Sagging dramatically onto the couch, she huffs out a breath and groans again. “It was at first. But… I don’t know Betty, I think I might actually  _ like _ him.”

“Veronica…”

“I know, I know,” she says, waving away Betty’s impending gentle chiding. “Things with Nick are...they’re just not going where I wanted and then this guy, who’s totally  _ not _ what I’d ever imagined wanting, is just flat out saying he wants to -” she stops herself, the faintest of blushes creeping across her cheeks. “Saying he wants me - like wants to  _ be  _ with me - and is just demanding I be ready for another date tonight and…  _ God. _ ”

“Okay V,” she laughs, squeezing her shoulder. “I think we can leave it there. Just… he likes you, okay? And he’s a good guy so… be careful with him.”

“I get that.”

“So things with Nick?”

“He doesn’t want a relationship and just lately he’s been, well, a bit of an ass.”

“Is it over?”

“Not officially.”

“Does Sweet Pea know that?”

“Yes.”

Betty’s open mouth closes, at a loss for words with which to respond. Eventually, she says, “Oh.”

“I’ll figure it out,” she tells her. “So what about you anyway?” Veronica questions. “How was _your_ date?” 

Betty smiles and joins her on the couch. “So sweet.”

“Where’d he take you?”

“First? This ulta fancy tapas place just off of Lexington.”

“OhmyGod,” she exhales in one breath. “La Mesa?”

“I think that’s what it was called.”

“Was it amazing? The reviews are ins-”

“- We left before dessert,” she replies. “And then he took me to this diner in Brooklyn with the best burger I’ve had, well, maybe ever, and we shared milkshakes and -”

“- You left  _ La Mesa _ to get burgers and  _ milkshakes? _ ” 

“Yeah,” Betty replies simply. “And it was the best decision… well, maybe the  _ second _ best decision I made all night.” 

One of Veronica’s dark eyebrows arches. “Are you alluding to what I think you might be?”

She tries to bite down on the insides of her cheeks so that her smile won’t be such a giveaway, but she fails and the grin stretches right up to her eyes. 

“Betty Cooper!” Veronica shrieks, and then lowers her voice at least two octaves. “So?”

“So what?”

“Was it good?”

Betty thinks about not answering: it really isn’t any of Veronica’s business, but it’s been so long since they caught up like this and if anything, she kind of wants to shout from the rooftops about just how  _ good  _ it was.

“I didn’t know it could be like that V,” she tells her instead, and rises from the couch to make coffee. 

  
  
  
  
  


A half hour later, Betty is standing beside Veronica in the F train’s pretty busy carriage, on the way to York Street. She’s surprised at how quickly her best friend had put on just enough makeup to look naturally fresh-faced, but yet has paired this look with high-heeled sandals and a tight, all-black dress which seems downright sinful to wear on a Sunday. She is very obviously out to impress Sweet Pea, and Betty spends a good five minutes looking at the tiny flowers printed on the sundress she’s wearing, and wondering if maybe she, too, ought to have at least painted her toenails again. 

By the time they reach the diner, Betty is hugely grateful for the respite from the city’s heat, which appears not to have affected Veronica judging by the way her skin is sweat-free when she removes her sunglasses. 

The bell chimes as they enter, and Sweet Pea glances up from his position at the counter, a grin Betty thinks he might be trying to subdue tugging at his lips. 

“Ladies,” he drawls, straightening up. “Twice in one morning - to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Betty came to check on her man,” Veronica answers without any preamble whatsoever. “I came for moral support regarding the hellish walk from the station.”

Sweet Pea’s lips twitch again in amusement. “That’s one hell of an outfit for moral support.”

Betty rolls her eyes. “We came for breakfast.” She knows that her co-worker knows this of course, and hopes he hasn’t told Jughead about their earlier conversation. 

“Take a seat; I’ll be right over with your coffee,” he says, and then makes no attempt to hide his stare as Veronica’s heels sound out her journey to the booth at the end of the diner. With no desire to sit through their flirting, Betty leaves them to it and heads towards the kitchen. She knocks on the swing door before pushing it open, and finds Jughead cracking eggs against the side of a bowl.

“Hey,” she says gently.

He looks up and his whole face seems to relax in front of her, eyes softening as he smiles. “Betty Cooper - aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

She crosses to where he’s standing at the counter and frames his face with her hands, stroking along his cheekbones before she leans in to seal her lips over his. She feels him smile against her, and when she makes to pull away, Jughead follows her, not allowing her lips to break apart from his. 

“Sore eyes huh?” she asks quietly, once he’s released her just enough that she can catch her breath. Her thumbs are still stroking his skin and his eyes drop from her gaze. “Juggie,” she continues, taking in the dark circles beneath them. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

“I’m fine,” he tells her in such a manner that clearly means he  _ isn’t _ fine.  

“Is it because of your dad?”

“It’s fine,” he repeats curtly, and she gets the distinct impression that this is where she should stop.

She nods. “Okay.”

The door swings open and Ethel places an order onto the hanger. “Hey Betty,” she greets with a smile. “Three number fours and a side of extra-crispy bacon.” She’s back out of the kitchen as quickly as she’d come in, and Betty turns the corners of her mouth into what she hopes is a smile. 

“I should get back to Veronica. Ethel’s probably doing all the work while she and Sweet Pea make eyes at each other over the coffee pot.”

Jughead catches her wrist before she can get out of his reach though, and gently tugs her back to him. “I’m sorry Betts,” he says. “Things with my dad...well they haven’t always been the best.”

She sighs inwardly, careful not to let any sort of pity for him show on her face.

“I didn’t mean to take that out on you.”

“It’s okay,” she replies, but he pulls her closer still until he can wrap his arms around her and drop a kiss to her forehead.

“No,” he exhales, letting his lips rest against her skin. “It’s not.” 

She lets him hold her like that for a moment, closing her eyes as she breathes in at his neck, the smell of him reminding her yet again of what it’d felt like to fall asleep beside him. 

“Are you going to meet him at the prison?” Betty asks tentatively. 

She can feel him swallow before he says, simply, “No.”

She doesn’t press for more, just offers her lips to his once again before extracting herself out of his hold. 

“Betts?” he asks as she’s pushing open the door. “You staying for breakfast?”

“Yes,” she smiles softly. 

“Blueberry pancakes?”

Her smile widens, and she crosses back to where he’s standing to kiss him again. “Always.”

“I’ll make a start.”

“Veronica’s also -”

“- An egg white omelette and the hash browns we don’t officially sell,” he tells her, adjusting the beanie on the top of his head. “Got it.”

Betty’s chest feels so full all of a sudden that she’s not sure what to say. In the end, she says nothing, and lets the door swing closed gently behind her.

  
  
  
  
  


“Okay, which one?” Veronica asks Betty later, holding up two equally stunning dresses. The first is emerald green and still has the tag on. Though Betty can’t see the price, judging by the material it’s cut from, she knows it must have been at least $200. The second is black and made from silk. There’s a knot at the back which looks as though it would sit at the very top of Veronica’s spine.    

“Try them on?” Betty suggests. “Then I can make a more informed decision.”

Veronica bustles back out of the room and leaves Betty to crush the garlic cloves for the chicken parmigiana she’s making. The meal will serve two purposes: the first being her dinner; the second being a meal for Jughead and his dad tomorrow evening. It’s not like she’s well-versed in how people leaving prison might feel about food, but she figures that Jughead’s dad might be grateful not to have to cook. 

And, of course, if he’d prefer takeout, it can always be put into the freezer for another day. 

She’s pouring olive oil into the pan when Veronica re-enters, wearing the green dress. It clings in all the right places: her breasts, the curve of her waist, her hips, her ass. 

“You look amazing,” Betty says. “Seriously V.”

“Thank you.” She twirls and then performs something of a mini curtsey, which makes Betty laugh. She disappears while the oil is heating in the pan, and Betty is removing the chicken from the refrigerator when she returns - this time dressed in black. 

“I thought I might wear my hair up,” Veronica says, twisting her curtain of dark silk so that it loops round, exposing her neck. “Your thoughts?”

The woman in front of her looks unequivocally stunning. “I think you should wear this one.”

A wide grin breaks out across Veronica’s face. “I think I might be excited.”

Betty feels the same expression mirrored on her own face. “I’m glad, V.”

The oil starts to smoke and Betty curses under her breath, turning down the heat and removing the pan from the ring in order to let it cool. “Just...when you come home, remember I’ll be here - trying to sleep.”

She winks. “Got it.”

By the time the intercom buzzes announcing Sweet Pea’s arrival, Betty has the completed parmigiana in the oven and is making a start on the dishes before setting to work on the lemon cupcakes she’s decided will make a nice treat for dessert. Without any actual knowledge of what Jughead’s dad likes (but the knowledge that Jughead himself likes pretty much _ anything _ ) she’s opted for a common - if not popular - flavour. 

Veronica lifts the receiver to answer, but before she can get any words out, Sweet Pea says, “It’s me, princess.”

She presses the button to let him in. “Come on up.”

Betty frowns at her chirpy response. “I thought you hated being called that?”

“B, when someone’s biting it into your skin in the throes of passion, it kind of takes on a different meaning.”

“Did you just…. Oh my  _ God. _ ”

Other than an arched eyebrow, Veronica’s satisfied smirk is all she gives in response. 

The knock on the apartment door a minute or so later is succinct, and Betty focuses very hard on cleaning the cutting board when Sweet Pea enters, whistling at Veronica’s appearance (much, Betty supposes, to her delight)

He must hand her some flowers because she hears cries of, “They’re beautiful!” followed by, “Let me find a vase.”

The bunch of red roses take up a spot beside Betty’s chamelaucium, courtesy of Jughead. Two very different flowers, she thinks, but both equally as beautiful. 

“Smells good in here Cooper,” Sweet Pea says, sniffing appreciatively. 

“Thank you. It’s chicken parmigiana.”

“Might even be better than where we’re going.”

“Which is?” Veronica asks. 

“A surprise. You ready?”

The pink blush creeping high along Veronica’s face does little to hide her excitement, and Betty smiles to herself as she turns back to the knives in the sink. “Have fun,” she tells them, with the response being, simply, the sound of the apartment’s door closing behind them both.

  
  
  
  
  


The following day, early in the evening when Betty knows the diner will be closing to customers, she takes the F from 2nd Avenue to York Street with a square tub containing a dozen lemon cupcakes and a bag housing the components for chicken parmigiana, seasoned potato wedges and a side salad - simply because she’s never really seen Jughead eat vegetables and she figures it’s at least worth a try. 

(She also doubts that salad is a feature of prison food, but hopes neither of the Jones men will make this link)

She disembarks with a whole host of other people: some of whom are obviously commuters working in Manhattan; some of whom are clearly heading to Brooklyn’s hipster bar scene, and heads in the direction of the diner, hoping that Jughead will still be there.

She’s yet to go to his apartment - a conversation for another day - but she figures that given his response to his father’s telephone announcement regarding being released from jail, her best bet in finding him will be at their place of work.

By the time she gets there, she’s pretty nervous and the hand that’s clutching her canvas bag of food is sweating. The sign on the door is turned to ‘closed’, and so she knocks loudly. 

No more than twenty seconds later, Trev is at the door. Betty watches him turn the latch and then pull the door towards him, letting her in.

“Thanks,” Betty says. And then, “Is Jughead -”

He rounds the corner, effectively answering her question, and she’s vaguely aware of Trev re-locking the door, but her attention is focused solely on the man in front of her who looks like he needs a hug, a shower, and a week’s worth of sleep - not necessarily in that order. 

“Betts?” he questions. “Is everything okay?”

She steps further into the diner and sees, over Jughead’s shoulder, a man with dark hair and dark eyes and stubble that’s dark too. He looks like the personification of a storm. He is, undoubtedly, Jughead’s father. 

“I brought you something,” she says quietly, her eyes focusing back on him. “I thought… maybe… you might want some dinner. Something you didn’t have to make yourself?”

Somewhere at the back of the room, a sugar pot clinks. It steals Jughead’s attention and he turns. 

“You can go Trev,” he says. “I’ve got it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” he replies, setting down the little paper packets. “Thanks Jug.”

Betty waits for Trev to leave before she says anything more, and then begins unpacking her bag once Jughead has locked the diner’s door once again. 

“You didn’t have to do this,” he says very quietly. 

“I wanted to.”

He catches her wrist as she’s pulling out the tupperware of salad, impossibly soft in the way his thumb strokes over her pulse point. “Betty…” His voice seems choked and she doesn’t know what to say in reply, just knows that she wants him to be okay. She nods and he releases her wrist so she can pull the final box from the bag. 

“Dad,” Jughead says, clearing his voice before steering her, hand gently placed at the base of her spine, towards the table the man is seated at. “This is my… This is Betty. She works here too.”

“Betty,” he repeats, smiling with an unsure expression. She wonders if he’s nervous too. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“She brought food,” Jughead continues, before she can hold out her hand to say hello. “For dinner. For us.”

“That’s real kind of you Betty,” FP says after a beat. 

She smiles, then steps a little closer to Jughead’s side. “It was no trouble.”

She feels his fingers press a little harder against her back: a thank you. An  _ of course it was. _ “I’ll leave you to it,” she says. “It was nice to meet you Mr Jones.”

For a moment, Jughead doesn’t say anything. Then, after he’s scrubbed a hand over his face, he asks, “Did you come here alone?”

“Yes.”

“I… if you give me twenty minutes, I’ll finish up and then walk you back.”

“It’s okay Jug,” she starts, “Really, I’m -” 

“- Walk your girlfriend to the subway Jug,” FP instructs. “I can finish up in here.”

Jughead seems to consider this for a minute, then says, “You sure?”

“I can remember how to fill the sugar pots, son. I’ll wait for you here.”

Betty expects there to be a reply of some sort, but when none comes, she smiles and says, “Heat the chicken and potatoes for a half hour. Maybe keep the cupcakes in the refrigerator - I used fresh cream.”

“Got it,” FP replies with a single curve of his lips and a wink that Betty finds herself smiling wider at. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” she returns, and they head out.

Unlike the past few times they’ve walked this journey together, Jughead doesn’t take her hand. Her fingers itch to hold his, but she keeps them firmly by her sides as they head towards the station in an uncomfortable quiet. 

On more than one occasion, Betty contemplates asking how things have been at the diner, but stops herself each time: if he wanted her to know, he’d tell her. 

As they round the corner and the station comes into view, Betty opens her mouth to ask whether he really  _ is _ okay, when Jughead’s voice stops her. “About my dad, calling you my girlfriend.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “Really, it’s -”

“ - I’d like you to be.” Jughead swallows. “My girlfriend I mean. I’d like you to be my girlfriend, Betty.” 

They stop walking. She stands there on the sidewalk, the traffic roaring past and the general city noise reverberating all around, yet all she hears is him. 

“Juggie,” she says gently, finally taking his hand in hers, lacing their fingers together tightly. “That’s… I’d really like to be your girlfriend too.”

He grins, tugging her in close to his chest so he can kiss her right there in the middle of the sidewalk. When they pull apart, he rests his forehead on hers and says, “I know I walked you here, but do you want to come eat with us?”

She  _ does _ want to do that - almost desperately, she realises - but she also knows that they need to talk. “I’d love to Jug,” she starts, “But maybe...maybe you need tonight together first. Without me.”

He nods slowly in agreement. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Be honest?” she says. “Tell him everything you feel you need to.”

He smiles and lets out a small chuckle. “You’re pretty amazing Betty Cooper, you know that?”

Betty closes her eyes and smiles, ducking her head a little embarrassed. After a while, she tells him, “I should get going.”

“Okay.”

Jughead kisses her once more and then releases her hand, watching her walk towards the station. “Jug?” she calls back, overwhelmed by a… by  _ something _ in her chest. “I lo-” she stops herself abruptly. “I’ll call you later.”

Her heart is hammering away at the realisation of what she’d been about to say when he shouts after her. “Betts?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Once again, she smiles, then heads into the station. 

 


	11. Chapter 11

For a long time after Betty disappears inside of York Street Station, Jughead stands on the sidewalk. He’s not exactly sure why he’s avoiding going back to the diner, just knows that this is, precisely, what he’s currently doing. 

Eventually, he’s forced to move when a young mother - supervising her son who’s riding a bike with training wheels - needs to get past. His fingers itch for a Marlboro, lips ticking in wait for the cigarette to be seated between them, and Jughead heads back in the direction of the diner.

He makes a stop at the bodega on the corner to purchase a packet of the smokes that became a habit back when he was in high school and needed something to do with his hands other than hit things. Eventually, the habit of holding a lit cigarette between his thumb and first two fingers gave way to typing, and save for the odd one or two, he hasn’t had the urge to light up since. 

Jughead buys a lighter too, and rips open the packet as soon as he’s outside. Briefly, as he’s seating the Marlboro between his lips, he thinks of Betty: her patterned sundresses; her blonde hair falling in waves over her shoulders with their splattering of freckles; those big, round green eyes of hers - innocent in a way that’s not quite child-like, but blindly hopeful. 

He takes a seat on the wall and drags on the cigarette, the smoke filling his lungs so full that he splutters slightly on the exhale - out of practice. Partway down the street, he can see the diner, it’s lit signs switched off; blinds closed to the evening sun which is spilling across the road in the places where it hasn’t been blocked by the buildings opposite. 

When he finishes the cigarette, he stubs out the butt with the toe of his boot and then lights up a second, appreciative of the comforting sound of the flame drawing upwards from the ignition. He manages to smoke his way through that one without coughing, and feels his limbs take on a slightly more relaxed state. That heavy feeling sitting low in his stomach is still there, but it’s masked slightly by the time he rises from the wall and heads back towards the diner. 

His father appears somewhat surprised when he enters, as though maybe, he hadn’t expected him to return. The food Betty brought earlier is still sitting on the table she’d deposited it on, and he thinks of her again. It’s pointless to wonder whether she’ll have let him know she’s back at the apartment she shares with Veronica, but he pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks anyway. 

There’s a message from Toni:  **_let me know if you need anything_ ** but other than that, his inbox is empty.

“Marlboros?” he father asks gravelly. 

Jughead looks up, questioningly.

“I can smell them on you Jug,” he replies. “Thought you quit?”

He decides to ignore the statement-cum-question and says instead, “You ready to go?” 

FP grabs the bag at his feet and smooths his hand over the stubble covering his jaw. He looks older than Jughead remembers. More tired. Worn. 

“Need some help with that?” he asks as Jughead stacks up Betty’s cake tub and chicken parmigiana.

“I’ve got it.”

“I can take the -”

_ “- I’ve got it,” _ he repeats, a little more harshly than he’d intended. Briefly, he feels a flash of guilt but then, as he’s locking the door like he’s done every night for the past Lord-only-knows-how-many days that his father’s been gone, he decides not to apologise. 

They walk back to the apartment in silence.

  
  
  
  
  


“Does Betty clean too?” FP asks as he steps inside the apartment and sets his bag on the obviously-vacuumed floor beside the couch.

Jughead feels the muscles in his jaw twitch and fights the urge to light another cigarette, regretting cleaning the apartment the previous night. “Betty hasn’t been here.”

“You ashamed of this place?” 

“It’s not somewhere for her to be.”

“It’s hardly Brownsville Jug,” he scoffs. “And she must like you a whole lot if she’s makin’ this kind of food. You should invite her over for dinner one night.”

Jughead chooses not to say anything and instead switches the oven on in the kitchen. He unpacks the food from the bag and puts the cupcakes in the refrigerator as Betty had instructed he should. There are two bottles of Miller Lite that rattle and clink when he opens the door, and for a while he looks at them, thinking about how easy it might be to twist off the cap and sink one. Instead, he closes the door and runs himself a glass of water, swallowing it in a series of gulps. It’s barely even cold - summertime tap water is of questionable quality - but Jughead refuses to pay for the bottled kind. 

His father is looking at him when he lifts his gaze. He wipes his mouth on his forearm and asks, “You want anything to drink?”

“We got any beer?”

_ We, _ Jughead thinks, not  _ you.  _ Not, do  _ you _ have any beer? It is, after all, him who’s been doing the grocery shopping.

“Thought you quit?” His words echo those of his father’s earlier, but he’s already opening the refrigerator again.

“It’s just a beer son,” FP says. “I gave up the hard stuff when I got the diner.”

Jughead hands over the bottle without reply and pulls two plates and a bowl from the cupboard. 

“I’m sorry,” his dad says quietly. “I’m sorry you got left with all of this.”

He swallows and feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulls it out, and sees Betty’s name on the screen. 

**_I’m home_ ** is what is says, followed by: **_I hope everything with your dad goes okay. 375 for the chicken and potatoes. Call me later x_ **

His thumb hovers over the reply button but he locks the screen instead and says, “You said you wouldn’t do anything that put you back there.”

“I know.”

“But you did.”

“I know.”

“And then you gave Sweet Pea a job, as if he didn’t have a target on his back when Crow got out.”

“Crow got out?” his dad clarifies, dark eyes widening as he brings the beer bottle away from his lips. “When?”

“About a month ago.”

Jughead’s shoulder seems to burn, a reminder of what had happened those few weeks prior; a reminder too, that this is undoubtedly a period of grace before he comes back.  _ He _ hadn’t been Crow’s target. A bullet-grazed shoulder doesn’t atone for a stretch in prison, thousands of dollars in medical bills and a burnt-out bar. 

“He came by,” Jughead adds. “Looking for Sweet Pea.”

“What’d he do?” FP asks, his eyes narrowing once more until they look like two black beetles. 

Grabbing his t-shirt from the neck, he pulls it up over his head. “This.”

His father’s whole demeanour changes. He sits up straight, setting the beer bottle down on the table between the couch and the tv stand. His voice seems a little strangled when he grits out, “He hurt you.”

“I just got in the way.”

“You -”

“- Betty was there,” he cuts in. “Right behind Sweet Pea. If he’d ducked or Crow’d missed…” Jughead doesn’t finish the sentence. 

“Jug -”

He makes for the door, not in a run, but not far off, reaching for the packet in his pocket before he’s even out of the apartment. The air outside seems suffocating without a hint of a breeze, but Jughead lights one of the cigarettes anyway and takes a deep pull, closing his eyes. 

Faintly, he hears the echo of Betty’s voice.  _ Stay with me. Stay with me. I just want you to be safe. _ He exhales harshly and takes another drag. Behind him, the door opens and closes, the metal bars rattling. A dog barks across the street and a siren pierces the air only a block or so away. Everything feels claustrophobic.

His dad takes up the remainder of space beside him, resting on the railing beside the steps leading to the door. “You got one of those for me?” 

Silently, Jughead hands him the packet and lighter.

“Look Jug,” he starts. “I know I messed up again, real bad, and you’ve been stuck running the diner when you shoulda been studying. I can’t… I wish I could go back and change things. Hell, sometimes I wish I woulda made your mom come back just so she could’ve taken you with her. Truth is,” he says, pausing to take another drag of the Marlboro. “I kinda thought the diner might be our thing you know? When I’m too much of an old man to flip burgers, maybe it would be you in that kitchen. Thought I coulda passed it on to you the way fathers give their sons the family business.”

Jughead feels his throat burn, but the cigarette in his hand hasn’t reached his lips since his dad started talking. He blinks heavily and stares straight ahead, pinning his gaze on the blue sedan parked outside of their building, though his vision is somewhat blurry. 

“And then I used to see you studying at the table and I realised that wasn’t what you were supposed to do - run some greasy diner in no-man’s land.”

“Dad,” he starts, but isn’t sure what he wants to say - or even if he wants to say anything at all. 

FP blows out a steady stream of smoke. “I’m sorry I didn’t have better aspirations for you Jug. And I’m sorry you got stuck here.”

He blows out his own stream of smoke. “It’s okay.”

“No,” FP says. “It’s not. But I’m goin’ to do right by you. I promise.”

Jughead finishes the remainder of his cigarette and flicks the butt onto the asphalt. He doesn’t quite know what to say; hadn’t expected those words from his father, and he wishes again that Betty were here. She  _ always _ knows what to say. 

“C’mon,” he says, dropping his own butt onto the floor beside Jughead’s. “That food your lady made isn’t cooking to cook itself.”

  
  
  
  
  


Late in the evening, long after the spare chicken parmigiana has been covered and set in the refrigerator for the following day, Jughead listens to the low hum of the tv set in the living room. It’s surprisingly comforting to know that there’s someone in the next room and he takes out his phone, hitting the call button once he reaches Betty’s name. 

“Hey Juggie,” she answers on the third ring. “Is everything okay?”

He closes his eyes at the sound of her voice. “I’m sorry it’s so late,” he says. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” She replies, and he thinks she’s telling the truth, but there’s also a hint of a yawn in her answer. “Did you eat the food?”

“Yeah,” he smiles despite the fact she can’t see him. “It was delicious Betts. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and Jughead presses the fingers of the hand that’s not holding his phone inwards towards his palms. “Can I… Would you mind if I came over?”

“Jug,” she says so softly that he can almost  _ see  _ the expression in her eyes. “Of course not.”

“I just want to see you.”

“I’ll make some coffee,” Betty tells him, and then he hears the rustling of what he thinks could be her sheets. “Just… are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he replies. “Honestly.”

He tells her he’ll be there in under an hour, and quickly pulls on a pair of jeans over his boxers. There’s a plaid shirt hanging up in his closet and he puts it on over the dark ‘s’ t-shirt he’s wearing before stuffing his metrocard and wallet into his back pocket.

FP looks up in surprise when he steps into the living room. “You headin’ out?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Uh, to Betty’s.”

Something like a grin crosses his lips. He looks at his watch. “It’s a little late Jug.”

“She’s still up.”

Jughead continues on his way to the door. “Be careful,” his father says with an undercurrent of something that implies he means it in more ways than one. 

“I’ll see you at the diner tomorrow,” he replies, and then closes the door behind him. 

  
  
  
  
  


Aside from the homeless person he thinks may well be asleep at the other end of the carriage, Jughead is alone. He realises, when he reaches up unconsciously to tug down his beanie, that it’s still in his bedroom. He pushes back the wave of hair that’s forever falling in his face instead, and reads the list of stations served by the G over and over until he can recite them all to himself in order (both forwards and backwards).

He switches to the F at Bergen, and rides the remainder of his journey with two Latino women who are very obviously heading to start their shifts at a medical facility. 

At 2nd Avenue, he leaves the train and heads out into the Manhattan night air. What he doesn’t expect to find, is Betty waiting for him at the top of the steps.

“Betts? What are you doing here?” he asks, wrapping his arms around her to pull her closer to him. She wraps her own arms around his waist and snuggles into his chest. Her hair is pulled into some sort of messy bun and he can smell her shampoo when he inhales.  

“I wanted to meet you,” she says. 

“It’s late baby - and dark and -”

She cuts him off with a kiss, her lips impossibly soft and tasting of something fruity - strawberries perhaps. By the time she pulls away, her hands are massaging the back of his neck and her blinks are long and sleepy.

“You’re not wearing your beanie,” she whispers against his mouth, then kisses him again. “And you smoked.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Sorry, I-”

“- You don’t have to apologise Juggie,” she says, her fingers stroking either side of his neck in such a way that he wants to say so many words to her about how  _ good  _ she is. He opens his mouth but she beats him to it. “I love you.”

Betty’s eyes flicker as she watches him.

“And don’t you dare think I’m saying it because it’s what I think you need to hear, or because of your dad, or because I want you to say it back. I love you, Jughead Jones,” she says again. “I just thought you should know.”

There is a lump so large in his throat that he doesn’t think he could speak even if he  _ did _ know what to say. He loves her.  _ Of course _ he loves her, but that one word - that one syllable - doesn’t seem enough to convey the magnitude of it.

“C’mon,” she nudges simply, dropping her hands from his neck so she can entwine their fingers. “Let’s get coffee.” 

They make it to the next block before he tugs her to him, kissing her with so much of the feeling he can’t put into words that she nearly tumbles with the force of it.

“What…” she gasps, “What -”

“- I love you.” It’s dizzying - saying the words aloud. “ _ God Betty, _ I love you.”

She giggles against his lips and they end up sort-of messing up the kiss because his mouth is stretched so wide, but Jughead doesn’t care. 

“Do you like pie?” she asks when they break apart.

His brow creases, confused for a moment. 

“I made peach pie,” she elaborates. The street lamp is offering a soft glow and as he looks at her, she seems ethereal somehow, blinking lazily up at him like she is. 

He smiles and kisses her again. “I love pie.” 

  
  
  
  
  


Leaving Betty’s bed the following morning is torturous. His body aches with tiredness and he almost gives in and crawls right back under the sheets when she stretches out, the cotton slipping down her skin and revealing her bare breasts. 

“I don’t want you to go,” she whispers, like admitting it aloud is something she should feel guilty about. 

“Don’t say that,” he replies on a groan as he tugs on his boxers. 

She reaches an arm towards him, wrist dangling over the side of the mattress. “I think you deserve a day off.”

“Maybe soon.”

“I want to spend Sunday mornings cuddled up in this bed with my boyfriend.”

_ Christ, _ he thinks, she might actually be trying to kill him. “Yeah? Well your boyfriend is having a hard time reminding himself he needs to leave like, fifteen minutes ago.”

She quirks an eyebrow as she props herself up on her right elbow. “Really?”

Betty uses the index finger of her left hand to drag the sheet further down her body until it pools just below her bellybutton. 

“You’re not playing fair,” he huffs, fully-aware that her panties are somewhere on the floor and therefore she is very  _ very _ naked. He allows his eyes to rake once more over her body and then, after he’s pulled his t-shirt on, Jughead heads to the door.

“Wait,” she calls, sitting up with the sheet clutched to her chest, suddenly developing some sort of modesty it seems. He pauses in his step. “You didn’t kiss me goodbye.”

A shit-eating grin stretches across his whole face and he leans back down to seal his lips over hers, her body soft and pliable beneath his hands. He frames her face before he pulls away so that he can peck her once, twice, and then a third time before resting his forehead against hers with a sigh. 

“Have a good day,” he tells her. And then, “I love you.”

This time, it’s Betty’s turn to break out in a grin. “I love you too.”

  
  
  
  


When Jughead arrives at the diner, his father is already there waiting. 

“You kids have a good night?” he asks, and Jughead feels an unexpected blush tinge his cheeks.

“Yeah, it was…” He thinks about Betty meeting him at the station; their sidewalk  _ I love yous; _ eating peach pie in her bed; tasting the sweet, sugar syrup on her lips; peeling off her lilac underwear. “I did.” 

FP claps him on the back. “She seems like a good one.”

He unlocks the door and pushes it open. “She is.”

The awkwardness of the previous day makes itself present again when both Jughead and his father head into the kitchen under the impression that they’ll be the one cooking.

“Oh,” FP says. “I can...I’ll work out front.”

“I just thought…” Jughead starts, then pauses to take a breath. “Dad, if you wanna cook, then that’s fine by me.”

“Really?”

“I think I’ve made enough pancakes for a lifetime,” he replies. _ “Really.” _

The smile that crosses his lips reaches all the way up into his eyes. “I’ll make a start on the batter,” he says, and heads to the store room. 

Their footfall is average for a Tuesday in mid-summer, and without the pressure of having to ensure wildly different food items be ready at the same time, Jughead finds that he doesn’t mind all that much taking orders and pouring coffee. 

The usual afternoon lull occurs a little after two, at which point FP brings out a burger and fries each for both Jughead and Trev. They eat at one of the booths, and once they’re finished, he takes the plates back to the kitchen in order to load them into the dishwasher.

“You think you can manage if I head out for a bit?” his dad asks.

“Where are you going?”

“There’s someone I gotta go see.”

“In the middle of a shift? Can’t it wait?”

He registers his father’s eyes lingering briefly on his injured shoulder and feels dread course through him. “Not really.”

“Dad,” he murmurs. “Tell me you’re not going to do anything stupid.”

“I’m not, I’m not,” he replies. “Just need to talk and… make sure everything’s settled.”

Jughead is vaguely aware that his tone might be bordering on pleading. “What is there to settle? At least let me come with you -”

“- No.” His interruption is stern. “No,” he repeats, but softer this time. “You stay here.”

“Dad -”

“- I mean it Jug. I’ll be back by this evening.” He removes his apron, wipes his face on his forearm and leaves without another word.

  
  


* * *

 

  
  


“And then you just… there,” Betty smiles, surveying the results of her handiwork. “You don’t have to grate the chocolate on the top, but I think it adds a little something.”

Jughead looks first at the dessert seated on the stainless steel counter in front of him, then at his dad, whose expression is a mix of bewilderment and awe, and then at his girlfriend who looks thoroughly pleased with herself.

“So are we going to try this thing?”

“Of course Mr Jones. Juggie, would you get the plates? I’ll go grab some forks.”

FP rubs at the stubble on the side of his face as the kitchen door swings behind her. “You think if you two ever get married, she might finally stop calling me Mr Jones?”

Before Jughead can answer - and before he can stop himself from picturing Betty walking towards him in white dress with a bouquet clasped in her hands - she returns. There are three forks in her right hand and she looks pointedly at the camera on the opposite counter. 

“Should we cut a slice for the photo or take it like this?” his dad asks.

“How about we get one of the whole pie first?” Betty suggests, “And then Jug can play around with a few shots of a slice on a plate - maybe with the fork resting on a napkin?”

Like either of them are going to argue with her. 

His girlfriend and father both stand back, giving him the space he needs to angle the pie under the lights in the way he wants before he snaps the pictures. He plays around with the focus and then wonders aloud about moving it to the front of the diner to take pictures on the counter there. 

Betty carries the plates and forks and his dad follows, watching as he nods his readiness for her to cut a slice of their newest addition to the revamped menu. 

“You were generous with the peanut butter Betty,” FP says. 

“Might as well do it right,” she smiles, sliding the wedge of dessert onto the plate carefully before wiping away a few stray crust crumbs with a napkin. “And I know how much you like it.”

She steps out of the way again for Jughead to take more pictures. He reviews them on the little screen and then turns the camera off.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s eat.”

Betty hands his dad the large slice they’d used for the pictures and then cuts him an equally generous helping. For herself, she cuts only a sliver, citing the fact she’d had one taco more than she should’ve for dinner, meaning she’s already full. 

Jughead sinks his fork into the chocolate ice cream, down further through the layer of creamy peanut butter and into the graham cracker crust. He hasn’t even put it in his mouth yet and he already knows it’s going to be amazing, and his dad confirms this, sighing out his appreciation before he says - with a mouthful of pie -

“Betty, it’s a masterpiece.”

Her smile stretches into her eyes and she hugs him excitedly. “Thank you. I’ll put the rest in the freezer before it melts.”

Jughead watches as his dad shakes his head, effectively stilling her. “Sit. I’ll do it.”

She does as she’s told and Jughead joins her in the nearest booth. “I think he might love you just as much as I do.”

She dips her head coyly and sinks her own fork into the dessert.

“And he’s right by the way - this  _ is _ a masterpiece.” 

  
  
  
  
  


That evening, Betty joins him from the bathroom of her apartment as he’s uploading the photos to the diner’s blog from his laptop. 

“Peanut butter perfection?” he asks as she slides in beside him. “Chocolate peanut butter perfection?”

“Perfection huh?” she grins, reaching across to plant a kiss on his cheek. 

Jughead rolls his eyes. “Like it would be anything else.”

“Smooth.” She adds a second kiss - this time to his shoulder. “But I like it. And go with the first one: the alliteration works better.”

He types in the title and proof-reads once more before angling the laptop towards his girlfriend. Against her window, the cold rain of early November sounds like a shower of tiny bullets, and he shuffles closer to Betty’s warm body. 

He watches as her gaze moves across the screen, taking in each and every word he’s typed. There aren’t many of them - he’s learned over time to keep the posts relatively short - but he sees her eyes linger on specific words; silently notes the upward quirk of her lips when there’s one she particularly likes.

“Is it okay?” he asks.

“Just a missing semicolon,” she replies. “Right…” she presses the left arrow until it reaches her intended destination. “Here.”

“Such a stickler for punctuation,” he sighs on a smile, and hits ‘post’. 

Betty takes the laptop from him, shutting the lid so she can place it on the floor and slide it under her bed. She turns her body into his, stroking her palm across his chest. His own hand fists at the hem of the t-shirt she’s wearing - one of his she’d commandeered from his closet and has refused to return ( _ “When it stops smelling like you Juggie, you can have it back.” _ )

“What time do you start tomorrow?” she asks as he presses a kiss against her neck. “Mmmm, please don’t say seven.”

“Eight thirty,” he grins, rolling them so she’s lying beneath him. “So we have plenty of time.” He nips lightly at her earlobe as her eyes flutter closed. “To do things.” He kisses his way along her jawline, down the column of her neck and stops only when he’s impeded by the collar of the t-shirt she’s wearing. “Like this.”

She arches her back enough that Jughead can remove the offending garment without protest. Somewhere in the apartment, there’s a soft thudding sound, followed by Veronica’s giggle and the unmistakable timbre of Sweet Pea’s deep voice.

“He’s got the early shift,” Jughead grins against Betty’s skin, before closing his mouth around her nipple. 

  
  
  
  
  


The bell of the diner chimes a little after nine-thirty on a cold, snowy Saturday morning. Jughead looks up from where he’s seated at a booth, fingers flying across the keys of his laptop as he works on a blog post for the diner, to see Betty and Veronica unwinding thick scarves from around their necks. 

Betty grins at him, hurriedly making her way to where he is in order to drop a kiss to his lips before she removes her coat. Her lips and nose are cold and red, and when her fingers pull at the zipper on her coat, he sees they’ve met the same fate too. 

“You’re freezing Betts,” he murmurs as she snuggles into his side, resting her head on his shoulder to read what he’s written so far. 

“So warm me up,” she counters, slipping her hand into his so he can rub the redness out of her fingers as she scans the half-completed post.

“Mmmm, morning princess,” they can hear Sweet Pea mumble against Veronica’s lips as she stretches on her tiptoes - despite her heeled boots - to kiss him over the counter. She joins them a minute or so later, after some sort of hushed whisper-conversation that leaves her cheeks tell-tale pink and a smirk crossing her mouth. Sweet Pea comes too, coffee pot in hand, to top up Jughead’s empty cup and to fill one each for Betty and Veronica. 

“I’ll let FP know you’re here,” he says once he’s done. 

Jughead closes the laptop and moves it to the edge of the table, setting his camera on top. He presses a kiss to Betty’s temple and she strokes the side of his face, angling him more towards her so she can kiss his cheek. 

“Seriously?” Veronica asks. “I’m trying to enjoy my morning coffee.”

“Didn’t you just kiss your boyfriend over the counter?” Jughead asks.

“That’s different?”

“In what way?”

“I’ve seen what we look like when we kiss. It’s hot as f-”

“- Veronica!” Betty admonishes. 

She holds her hands up in defense, but her tone is completely unapologetic when she says, “Just saying.”

Jughead has no desire to know how she’s seen what it looks like when she and Sweet Pea kiss, and he quickly switches the subject to the (incredibly early) Christmas shopping the two women have planned after they’ve eaten. 

Both Sweet Pea and his father bring out a selection of food and seat it on the booth’s table. 

“I’m still mad I didn’t get the invite to this,” Sweet Pea mumbles, surveying the items in front of him. “How did that happen by the way?”

“You’re working,” FP answers. “And don’t think I haven’t seen you stuffing in the leftovers when I make too much.”

“I’m a growing boy,” he mumbles, somewhat bereft, and Veronica tugs on his fingers until he bends down to kiss her. 

“I’ll save you some babe,” she says, and he leaves to clear another table with a smile and a pointed, 

“Thank you.”

“Okay, we have cinnamon french toast; these here are ground beef breakfast burritos with scrambled eggs, smoky ham, griddled onions, pepper-jack cheese and a little guac I put on the side incase you don’t like it, and, uh… caramel apple pancakes. Made these with you in mind Betty.”

Jughead thinks he hears Betty’s quiet gasp and he places a hand on her knee, squeezing over the material of her jeans. 

“It all looks so good Mr Jones,” she says, her eyes sweeping over the selection in front of her. 

“I want you to be honest. No point puttin’ somethin’ on the menu that folks aren’t gonna order. Oh!” he exclaims. “I almost forgot.”

They all watch as he heads back to the kitchen, disappearing behind the swing door for a moment until he reappears with a plate piled high with what looks like hash browns. 

“I revamped your boyfriend’s signature dish Veronica,” FP says. “Thought we might as well start selling them officially.”

She smiles. “They already look better than his.”

“I heard that!” Sweet Pea calls over, but she simply bats her painted eyelashes and again, he’s grinning at her.  

“You kids enjoy,” FP says before heading back to the kitchen. Jughead moves the plates accordingly and then grabs his camera, snapping enough pictures that he’ll have a good selection from which to choose.

“Okay,” he announces once he’s satisfied with the results. “Done.”

He watches Betty dig into the pancakes first, the caramel sauce coating her fork as she pierces the tower of discs. There are layers of sweet apple sauce spilling over the sides as she cuts, and he leaves her too it, registering her mumble of approval as the doorbell chimes somewhere in the distance, signalling more customers. 

Veronica has a forkful of hash browns decorated with what appear to be smoky onions, and Jughead himself picks up one of the breakfast burritos, holding it tightly so as not to lose any of the filling. 

The bell rings again - more customers - and he relaxes further into the booth, Betty snuggled into his side. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at the end! Thank you to everyone who’s commented, left kudos, bookmarked, liked and reblogged this little story on Tumblr. It’s been so fun to write and I’ve been blown away at the response it’s gotten.
> 
> I have a not-so-little something in the works currently so keep on eye on AO3 this coming week. Until then, enjoy the final chapter :)

“Night Ethel,” they all call in unison as the last member of staff barring FP, Jughead and Betty herself leaves the diner for the evening. It’s strange, she thinks, how many more colleagues she now has here compared to the previous summer.

She finishes folding the last napkin and takes the completed pile to the counter where FP is polishing the coffee machine. Lattes and cappuccinos had been something of a learning curve for the Jones men, but their new machine now enables them to serve a little more than just regular old drip coffee. Occasionally, Betty misses the simplicity of the diner before the blog that she and Jughead created increased customers tenfold. Now that she no longer needs to use a pan to heat the milk for hot chocolates though (not to mention the significantly more favourable financial position FP is in) she wouldn’t go back.

Their opening hours are longer; the work is harder, but it’s all worth it. She knows, also, that she doesn’t have too many shifts left before she begins the internship she’s managed to score at HarperCollins, so the end of each day she’s been serving pancakes and pouring coffee is somewhat bittersweet. She’ll miss the family atmosphere and the way FP smiles when she arrives each morning; will miss topping up Jughead’s coffee cup as he works away on his college assignments; will miss him tugging her back by her wrist so he can kiss his thank you against her lips.

But, she shares a bed with Jughead most nights; kisses him awake most mornings, and Betty is glad _that_ part isn’t going away.

“All done?” Jughead asks, brushing a hand over her hip until it curves at her waist. She leans back against his chest and feels him rest his chin on her head. His breath tickles her neck and she sighs somewhat tiredly.

“Yep. You done too Mr Jones?”

“Just…” he rubs at a mark she can’t see. “There.”

They wait out front of the diner for him to grab his bag, the relatively cool night air of early summer feeling good against her sticky skin. Another year with decent business, her boyfriend’s dad had said, and they’d be able to spring for an air conditioning unit that actually works.  

“How about pizza for dinner?” Jughead asks her, taking her hand as FP locks the door.

“Sounds good,” she replies, leaning into him a little. “From Figaro’s?”

“Where else?”

Betty can feel his smile as he turns his face into her hair, dusting a kiss to her crown.

They walk the journey to Vernon Avenue pretty slowly: Betty’s legs are tired and heavy and seem to be uncooperative with her will for them to speed up so she can shower while her boyfriend and his dad do that thing where they pretend they haven’t tidied up simply because she’s there.

As they near the building, Jughead unwinds his fingers from hers so her can drape an arm over her shoulder. She’s never felt particularly uneasy about walking through his neighbourhood, but she knows he doesn’t like this for her - she’s never arrived here alone before - and if his over-protective nature means he keeps her close like this, then she’s not about to put up any sort of fight.

Parked outside of their building is a rather shiny Ford F-150. Betty recognises it as the 1992 model and thinks nothing more of it until FP stops walking and turns to face the truck, whistling lowly.

“She’s nice.”

“Yeah,” Jughead replies passively, continuing along the final yard or so of sidewalk.

“Here,” FP says throwing a set of what appears to be keys in his direction. The action catches him off guard and he nearly misses them as they drop towards him. He slides his arm from around Betty’s shoulders and blinks at the keys in his grasp.

“What’s…”

“It’s for you,” FP says.

Jughead blinks for a few moments, looking at the keys, then at the truck, until his gaze settles on his father.  

“Dad, I can’t-”

“- Just take it,” FP says.

Betty feels a little like she’s intruding as she glances at her boyfriend, his eyes kind of glassy as he blinks repeatedly.

“You,” he starts, voice sounding choked. “You didn’t need to do this.”

FP steps closer to the truck, running his hand over the hood. “Betty, what did your parents get you for graduation?”

She thinks back to the day she accepted her diploma, the little box her mom had presented her with at the kitchen table before she could spoon any fruit salad into her bowl. “A pair of earrings.” She leaves out the fact that they were diamonds set into platinum: a useless detail here.

“You know what I got Jug?”

“Dad, c’mon,” Jughead starts “It doesn’t-”

“- Nothing.”

Betty takes in a breath and is careful about its exhale.

“He accepted that piece of paper and all I did was tell him he did good.”

Jughead is still blinking, but his eyes are now fixed on the truck. Betty’s heart hurts for him, fingers aching to reach for his but she knows how he feels about people feeling sorry for him; pitying the life he’d led as a child and then as a teen.

“I heard you two talking about what you wanted to do this summer. That road trip to Wisconsin,” FP says.

When Jughead lfts his head, his gaze travelling back to his father’s, a wry grin spreads across his face. “The walls aren’t that thick Jug. You might wanna remember that.”

Betty flames at the wink FP gives his son, then watches as Jughead throws his arms around him in a hug. Rather than the clap on the back she’s come to witness him give to Sweet Pea, Trev and the other male members of staff at the diner, he’s more gentle this time, hand rubbing down his back in the same way he hugs her.

“Thanks dad,” she hears Jughead mumble at his neck, right before FP nods and sniffs back what she guesses might be a couple of tears. They pull away and she learns she was right: his dark eyes are watery.

“You wanna take her for a spin?”

  
  
  


Jughead rolls the truck to a stop beside a tall fence, clouds of dust dancing around the tyres as they climb out and onto the gravel. Betty takes a deep breath of the ocean air but rubs at her arms as goosebumps break out over her skin: the temperature is notably cooler than it had been amongst the concrete and the buildings, and Jughead must take note, untying the plaid shirt from around his waist so he can drape it over her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she says, slipping her arms through the sleeves before stretching on her tiptoes to kiss him.

The material swamps her but she lifts the cuffs close to her nose and smiles as she inhales: it smells of him.

“C’mon,” he beckons, taking her hand in his. “I’m starving.”

They buy too much junk food from one of the stands on the boardwalk and carry it until they reach a bench looking out to the ocean. Betty takes a bite of her hot dog, mustard dripping onto the little cardboard tray, and watches the waves tumble against the sand. Jughead sighs contentedly as he takes a large bite out of his own hot dog, and she leans her head on his shoulder as he pulls her closer.

“Do you still want to?” he asks after a while. “Do the whole roadtrip thing I mean.”

She lifts her head, turning her body so she can face him.

“Eat all our meals at cheap roadside diners,” he continues. “Sleep on sheets of questionable freshness at motels; spend a whole month just driving and writing and taking pictures.”

Betty cups the side of his face with the hand that hasn’t been holding her hot dog. “That sounds perfect.”

His smile is so wide that her breath catches high in her throat, her chest tightening as he leans in to capture her lips. His tongue tastes like ketchup and she figures hers must taste like mustard, and she knows it probably should be a little gross, but somehow, it isn’t.

“I love you,” she tells him. “So much.”  

He tucks the strand of hair blowing across her face back behind her ear. “I love you too.”

Jughead starts on his second hot dog while Betty makes inroads on her funnel cake. The batter is still warm and crispy in places and she lets the powdered sugar melt on her tongue before she chews. She’s only ever had the snack once in her life before: from a tiny little stand at Riverdale’s jubilee celebrations, and although it has seemed delicious at the time, the one she’s currently devouring is in a whole different league.

“It’s good?” Jughead asks.

“So good,” she replies, stabbing her fork to tear off another piece.

After Jughead has eaten his own funnel cake - and the remainder of Betty’s she’d been unable to manage - they get a single, unbelievably sweet cherry slushie to share as they walk along the boardwalk towards Brighton Beach.

“It’ll be nice not to be constantly surrounded by noise,” she says.

Jughead chuckles lightly. “That truck isn’t exactly quiet Betts.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He squeezes her hand in his gently. “I know.”

The air is rapidly cooling and she folds herself into his side rather than suggest they head back. He kisses her at Grimaldo’s chair and Betty thinks, _I don’t ever want to let you go._

  
  
  


“Have a great time,” Veronica says. “I’ll miss you.”

Jughead picks up the holdall beside the apartment door and slings it over his shoulder as Betty hugs her roommate goodbye. She picks up the backpack containing the few items she’d been unable to fit in the other bag, and then they walk the short journey to 2nd Avenue station.

They take the F to Bergen and then switch to the G for the remainder of the journey to Flushing Avenue. The truck is parked outside of Jughead’s building - they hadn’t seen the point in driving into the city to sit in a ridiculous amount of traffic when they can get straight onto the 278 - and he sets Betty’s holdall neatly beside his own just behind the seat in the cab.

There are butterflies of excitement fluttering in Betty’s stomach and she climbs into the passenger seat with a grin spread wide across her face. The sun has made the truck almost unbearably hot and Jughead rolls down the window to let what little breeze there is filter in. Betty does the same, figuring that once they start driving, it’ll create something of a through-breeze to cool them down.

They make a quick stop at the diner to say goodbye to FP, who pulls them both into a hug at the same time, tells them to be careful, and then presses something into the palm of Jughead’s hand.

“Dad,” he starts, but FP holds up a finger to stop him.

“I want you to have it.” He nods in Betty’s direction. “Make sure she has somewhere comfortable to sleep each night.”

She doesn’t quite know what to say, and when Jughead steps back, she curves both hands around his arm, touching her forehead to his shoulder. Sweet Pea appears, clutching a paper bag that’s been folded over.

“For the road,” he says.

“Breakfast burritos?” Jughead asks.

“Of course. I put extra guac in yours Betty,” Sweet Pea replies.

When Jughead looks at him questioningly, he simply says, “I like her best.”

A faux-tussle ensues between the two, which ends in Sweet Pea stealing the beanie from her boyfriend’s head and then throwing it at him.

“Get out of here,” FP laughs.

So they do.

  
  
  


Their first destination is Philadelphia. While Betty has spent her evenings researching the best route to take in order to visit Christ Church, Independence Hall and The Declaration House, Jughead has been looking at where he can find the best cheesesteak.

They drive in a happy silence - just the rhythmic judder of the truck’s engine whirring beneath the hood - and Betty looks out of the window as the city’s buildings fade away, her fingers resting over Jughead’s on the seat between them.

Jughead pulls off the Turnpike at the Raritan, and they eat the burritos Sweet Pea had packed for them seated in the bed of the truck. She’s still giddy - excited by the level of freedom they’ll have for the next few weeks - and she watches the water glitter under the sun, wondering whether Jughead feels the same.

After a stop at Assunpink Creek so they can cool down and take pictures of the lake, they reach Philadelphia late in the afternoon as a collection of storm clouds are gathering overhead. They make it to their motel room - accessed from a concrete path snaking around the edge of the single storey building - just as the first few spots of rain fall.

Jughead has their two heavier bags and sets them down beside the set of drawers opposite the bed. Betty adds each of their backpacks and smooths down her dress, looking up at him.

“Should we call your dad?” she asks. “Let him know we’ve made it?”

She watches him look at her, then at the bed, chewing the inside of his cheek momentarily. “Later,” he replies, and tugs her to him.

He inches them backwards until the edge of the mattress bumps against the backs of her knees. Pausing in his kisses to lift the dress over her head, Jughead swallows, his hands smoothing over the bare skin of her stomach.

“A whole month,” he murmurs, laying her down on the bed gently. “Of no interruptions.”

She sighs happily as he removes his t-shirt and dips to kiss from her bellybutton to the light blue lace of her bra. Her fingers tangle in his hair as she rakes through it, and the rain drums against the window outside.

Later, with a let-up in the summer storm, they head out to find food, finally arriving at the neon-lit Tony Luke’s on Oregon Avenue. Jughead orders them a cheesesteak each, the excitement evident in his eyes, and she giggles, nestling into his side as he hands over the twenty.

They’re presented, after five minutes or so, with two overwhelming sandwiches piled high with rib-eye steak, and topped with provolone. He eats all of his and then the part of Betty’s she can’t manage, and wipes his fingers on the stack of napkins she’d taken from the counter.

“What’s your verdict?” she asks as they head back to the truck, her Keds splashed with speckles of brown from the puddles.

“Amazing,” he replies, but the way he’s looking at her makes her wonder whether he’s talking just about the sandwich.

The rain starts up again as they near the motel, and by the time Jughead pulls into the parking lot, it’s bouncing off of the asphalt. He grabs her hand and then run to their room, splashing through puddles as they go, but Betty is laughing when they make it inside, raindrops dripping from her forehead to her cheeks.

They shower together because they can - and as the steam fogs the glass, Jughead makes her come while the suds are swallowed by the drain.   

  
  
  


After Philadelphia, they head to Washington, and Jughead pulls off of route 50 just before the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, driving north until they reach the tip of Kent Island. It’s an unscheduled stop (at least as far as Betty’s concerned) and when they park up, he turns to her and says softly,

“Indulge me, please?”

She takes his outstretched hand without question and he leads her over the grass to the soft sand.

“It’s beautiful Jug,” she tells him, nearly overwhelmed by it all as he wraps his arms around her from behind, holding her against his chest. He doesn’t say anything, just drops a kiss to the top of her head, and they look out at the dipping sun over the stretch of water.  

In bed, Betty plans a day of what she calls _official building sightseeing,_ and Jughead grumbles against her bare shoulder something about _capitalism_ and _supporting a dictator,_ but accompanies her anyway, handing her his camera when she wants to snap photos and holding her hand when she doesn’t.  

They stumble across Ted’s Bulletin and even though the items on the menu are more expensive than they should probably pay given the fact they don’t have an endless supply of cash, Jughead says it’ll be a treat - like the whole trip isn’t _exactly_ that - and opens the door for her to step inside.

They order a poptart each: blueberry cheesecake for Betty; brown sugar and cinnamon for him, and then she picks a key lime pie flavour adult milkshake which is laced with rum. Jughead sticks with regular vanilla, and by the time she’s finished sucking the liquid through her paper straw, she’s a little tipsy, her limbs heavy as they head back out into the night air to their motel.

They spend a couple more days in the city, then take the I-76 towards Pittsburgh, making a stop at Laurel Hill State Park. Betty pulls out the spare beach towel she’d brought from her apartment, and lays it out on the sand beside the lake for them to share. Jughead falls asleep soon after he stretches out, and she watches him for a while, listening to the birds sing and the children laugh as they play on the slide to the right of where they’re lying.

She writes the postcards she’d bought back in Washington: one to Veronica; one to FP and everyone at the diner; one too, to her parents back in Riverdale. Jughead rouses as she’s signing their names on the final one, turning into her and pressing his lips to her shoulder at the spot where her camisole strap has fallen from.

“Mmmm, how long was I out?” he mumbles against her skin.

Betty checks her watch. “Nearly an hour,” she replies. “You still tired?”  

He slides the palm of his left hand under her top, stroking along her skin. “I’m okay.”

“We don’t have to drive to Ann Arbor tonight,” she tells him.

“Actually, I was thinking…” he pauses, swallowing heavily as his hand stills at her waist. “My mom, she’s.... I have an address for her. In Toledo.”

“Oh.”

“We don’t have to go,” Jughead adds. “I know it’s not part of the plan and we said we wanted to get to Wisconsin by -”

“- Juggie,” she interrupts softly, tracing his jaw with her fingers. “We can go to Toledo. We can _stay_ in Toledo if that’s what you want.”

He fists the material of her top in his hand, tugging just enough that she knows he wants to say something he can’t find the words for.

“I love you,” she says, and snuggles in closer.

  
  
  


They reach Toledo the next day after an overnight stay in a motel with scratchy sheets and a shower that leaks. Betty is very aware that Jughead hasn’t slept - the dark circles under his eyes are the biggest giveaway, but he’s also been shifting in the driver’s seat for the majority of the journey.

Aside from an omelette she ordered at an IHOP, Betty hasn’t eaten since the previous evening, and her stomach rumbles unhappily. There’s a granola bar somewhere in her backpack and she’s about to fish it out when Jughead says,

“Let’s grab something to eat.”

Betty knows he’s saying it for her benefit: he barely touched his own breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon, so she shakes her head. “It’s okay - we can go see your mom first.”

“Betts,” he replies gently. “You’re hungry. We can go there after.”

She nods and leans in to kiss him. “Okay.”

As Jughead is filling the truck with gas, Betty selects two chicken salad sandwiches from the refrigerator, an apple each from the fruit basket on the counter, then adds a KitKat to her purchase, figuring that if Jughead doesn’t much fancy eating, he might at least have the candy bar later. She stows it away in her purse after she’s paid for both the food and the gas, and heads back out into the baking mid-afternoon sun.

Her top is a little stuck to her back with sweat - the truck is incredibly hot without air conditioning - and for a moment, she worries about what Jughead’s mom will think of her, turning up without a dress and a pastel cardigan and her hair parted in neat waves.

Betty eats her sandwich at the little picnic table to the side of the gas station, and tries not to keeping watching to see how much Jughead has eaten. He makes it through one of the large triangles, though she can tell it’s an effort, and then closes the packet.

“Thanks Betty,” he says. “I’m just not that hungry.”

She saves the apple for later and they climb back into the truck.

They arrive at the south-west of the city from the I-280 and head towards the river, making a series of turns until they arrive at the address Jughead has scrawled on a piece of paper.

Betty had been hoping, she realises, that the place they’d arrive at would be the evidence of why he hasn’t heard from Gladys in so many years. When she looks at the little house with its freshly-painted white siding and cut grass however, she feels her throat burn.

Jughead stares at the house, then glances back down at the piece of paper in his hand, then at the house again. He steps out of the truck and Betty follows suit, joining him at the driver’s side door.

He doesn’t move again - or even speak - for a long time until eventually, he says,

“She could’ve come to see me, right? Could’ve written or called.” His eyes are so sad, and she just wants to make it better. It hurts - knowing she can’t. “But she didn’t.”

“Jug -”

“- I think I want to go,” he says quietly to the ground.

Betty looks at the house across the street and then at the man next to her. She cups his hand in hers, brings it to her lips to press a kiss at his palm and then says, softly, “Okay.”

  
  
  


The next time Betty opens her eyes, it’s dark. She lifts her head from where it’s been resting against the window and finds that her neck is stiff and sore.

“Jug?” she mumbles sleepily. “What time is it?”

She realises then, that the radio is on low, playing a song she thinks she might’ve heard before somewhere.

 

_I been running a long, long time_

_Trying to flee that life_

_But I can't seem to leave it behind_

 

Betty switches it off, shifting in her seat so that she’s pressed closer to him; so her palm is lying on his thigh.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” she tells him apologetically.

“It’s okay,” Jughead replies. “You’re tired. It’s a little after midnight.”

“Where are we?”

“Nearly at Green Lake.”

“What?” She lifts her head from his shoulder to look at him. His eyes are tired and his thick hair is tangled from where he’s been pushing it back from his face. She smooths the wave back for him and chides gently, “You should’ve woken me. We should’ve stopped somewhere.”

He doesn’t reply, just allows for his eyes to flicker momentarily from the road to her. She sighs and squeezes her hand on his thigh as they make a left.

Jughead cuts the engine outside of a large 1930’s-style guest house and turns his lips to her temple.

“C’mon,” he whispers. “Let’s get you a decent bed.”

She kisses him as soon as they’re inside their room, her arms looping around his neck, body pressed as close as she can get. His hands splay at either side of her face, fingertips sinking delicately into her skin.

“I love you,” he gasps. “I love you Betty, I -”

She cuts him off, her own mouth stealing the words because it’s too much. _He’s_ too much sometimes - loving her like this when his own mother… the woman who left him to -

Abruptly, catching her off guard, tears spill from her eyes and down her cheeks. Jughead pauses in his kisses, catching them with his thumbs.

“Hey,” he says gently. “What is it?”

She’s mad at herself for crying, but madder at his mom - and even at FP too. “I won’t leave,” she promises. “I’m never going to leave you.”

_“Betts.”_

“Tell me you understand,” she urges. “Tell me you believe me.”

His tone is achingly sincere when he says, “I believe you.”

  
  
  


It’s days later when they’re sitting beside a small campfire Jughead’s made, Betty roasting marshmallows on sticks so that they puff up and turn golden above the flames, when he turns to her and says,

“I might go back - one day.”

“I think,” she starts, carefully. “I think that if you want to, then that’s great.”

“And if I decide not to?” he asks. “Knowing where she is - where I can find her - what does that make me?”

Betty hands him one of the sticks and he twirls it around in his right hand, his left one seated by the hem of her dress. “It makes you _you,_ Jughead. And whatever you decide to do, I’ll be here.”

A little before midnight, he asks if she’s hungry.

“I could eat,” she replies, drawing invisible lines between the moles on his side. “What did you have in mind?”

They pull up at a 24-hour diner by the side of the county road. Its strip lighting is brash against the dark landscape and Betty feels Jughead’s hand on the small of her back as they enter.

“Evening folks,” the waitress behind the counter greets them. “Can I get you some coffee?”

Their cups are filled as they look over the menus. She settles on toast and eggs - something light she knows Jughead will finish for her if she can’t manage it - and he picks chocolate chip french toast.

“Great,” their waitress says. “It won’t be too long.”

They’re in the middle of a conversation about the internship she’ll start in a couple of weeks when, somewhere behind the small opening between the front of the diner and the kitchen, they hear a bell ring.

“Order up!”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr at @itsindiansummer13
> 
> Comments are always HUGELY appreciated


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